The Divine Shroud
by Indee
Summary: Life after the war is nothing like Harry expected. It's not peaceful or happy; it's restless and uncomfortable and it's life. But when someone begins raising the dead, things start to get a lot more complicated. H/D
1. Chapter 1: The Broken Eternity

Fog swirled low to the ground, engulfing the hidden cemetery in a thick haze that seemed almost impenetrable. The heavy mist made everything damp and slick, and the rains from the previous days had made the grounds soggy. As two cloaked figures slipped across the dismal place, unnoticed by anyone who might have otherwise seen them if not for the fog, the wet earth clung at their shoes making it feel as though the very dead themselves were grasping at their ankles.

The two figures came upon a massive stone tomb that even they had had trouble pinpointing; the magic webs hiding it from sight so thick that even now, standing before it, it seemed to shudder and shimmer. It was as though the tomb itself had merely been superimposed on the land, not quite gone but not quite there. Faintly glowing letters were imprinted on the large gate that kept it locked, shifting and changing from one language to another. It was a warning; _he who doth open the tomb shall unleash a thousand curses upon himself._

"Are you sure this is such a good idea, Rudolphus?" said the shorter figure, drawing back his hooded cloak and revealing a rail-thin man with a black shadow of stubble covering his jaw. His cheeks were gaunt and his black hair was long and matted from years on the run. He looked to be in desperate need of a good scrubbing.

The second figure, larger and muscled, ripped his hood off with force. His face, pale but fierce, glared at the shorter man. Though he had been in quite the same situation as his companion, he was less worse for wear because of it. His dark hair was groomed and cut short, his face clear of stubble and his skin free of dirt.

"Don't be a coward, Rabastan," Rudolphus snarled at his younger brother, grabbing him by the collar. "Would you back out now when we are so close?"

"N-no, of course not," Rabastan stuttered, paling at the ferocious look his brother was giving him. Rudolphus was completely mad, and Rabastan suspected that he, too, was mad for even entertaining his brother's plan. But what was he to do? Rudolphus would likely kill him if he attempted to stop his brother's mad endeavour. Rabastan could only hope that perhaps nothing would happen; that Rudolphus' plan would fail and they would go back to living in caves in the Russian north. It was a bleak life, but it was living.

"Good," Rudolphus spat, releasing his hold on Rabastan's robes. "Once He has risen, we will be treated as Gods. Better than. He will raise our Lord. I will have my wife come back to me. Mudbloods and their filth will be wiped out of existence and men will grovel for our mercy."

Rabastan watched as his brother moved forward toward the gate of the tomb. Even as Rudolphus passed his hand through the air in front of it, they could see the dark green barriers glow to life at his invading presence. This truly was insanity. Even if they managed to conquer the imposing barrier that kept intruders out, even if they avoided the plague of curses that threatened to descend on them as soon as the gate was open, even if _somehow_ they managed to get inside the tomb, what was to say they even had enough power to raise Him? Raising the dead was a formidable Dark Art that none had conquered in centuries. Even combining their powers, as they would have to, was likely not enough. The effort could kill them.

And for what? A reign of darkness? God-like status? A long-lost wife that Rabastan knew did not even love her husband as he loved her? Madness. It was Rudolphus final descent into the dark abyss of his mind. Should this fail, as Rabastan was sure that it would, his brother would likely succumb completely to it and die. It was strange of him to hope something like that of a brother who was so close to him, but Rabastan tired of his Rudolphus' ways; of his mad ramblings of a greater era.

He followed only in the desperate hope that this would end everything and Rabastan would finally have some peace; whether it was because he was to die here or otherwise move on without Rudolphus.

Rudolphus pressed closer to the green barrier, drawing a wand stolen from the heart of another ancient tomb. The wand itself was in bad-shape. It was gnarled and nicked, damaged from centuries of neglect. Only the intense magic that it had once channelled kept it from dissolving into dust. It was Rudolphus' hope that the greatness of its former master would have instilled just that extra bit of magic they would need to complete their dark mission.

"_Duro_," Rudolphus hissed in a low voice, tapping the wand once in the air against the barrier. Immediately extending from where his wand produced the dark green glow, the barrier began to solidify. Though when it had been only slightly visible it had produced the green glow, now it was becoming the color of black marble. Having been conjured into reality, the barrier seemed far more formidable.

When the barrier had finished forming, Rudolphus grinned.

"See, brother? Easy," he said, glancing at Rabastan. The younger brother could only swallow and nod hesitantly. _Too _easy, he thought. But then, the barrier was only to discourage visitors. It was the defensive strategy. Getting through that _wouldn't _be the hard part. As Rudolphus took a step back, Rabastan took a few more, giving his brother a wide berth.

Flicking the wand, Rudolphus bellowed, "_Confringo!_"

A spark of light flew from the tip of the gnarled wand, hitting the solid barrier with such force that the percussion sent both men stumbling backwards. For a moment, it had seemed as though nothing else had happen. Then long, web-like cracks began forming from where the spell had hit the wall until the barrier began to crumble. Though normally the spell would send anything it hit exploding into thousands of tiny pieces, it seemed that the barrier had absorbed most of its potency.

An irritated look passed over Rudolphus' face.

"_Confringo!" _Rudolphus snarled again, flicking the wand with more force than was needed. Though the wall had already begun to open up, the spell blew the remaining rubble away. Debris the size of large hailstones showered them and Rabastan hurried to cover his face with his arms. Rudolphus didn't move; as though to prove to the tomb that it was no match for him. Still, a bit of sharp rock hit his cheek and made a jagged cut just beneath his eye. Though it bled, Rudolphus didn't acknowledge it.

He stepped over the pile of black rock, but as soon as he had passed the obliterated threshold, what was left of the barrier began to vanish. He turned to Rabastan, a look of fierce determination across his terrifying features.

"Hurry, before it reforms," he snapped, and Rabastan felt a bit like a child again, following in Rudolphus' footsteps, doing whatever it was that his older brother told him to do. Well, really he'd done it all his life. Rudolphus said jump and Rabastan would ask how high. It was the only reason Rabastan was doing this. The only reason Rabastan had joined the Death Eaters. The only reason why Rabastan was in the situation he was in. It was, however, too late to do anything about it.

Rabastan quickly, though cautiously, stepped through the opening in the barrier as it began to close up behind them. Though the solid wall and rubble had disappeared, the green glow had returned. Rabastan could only hope that Rudolphus would be able to get them out again, though he had a sneaking suspicion otherwise.

The gate to the tomb was basic and had no magical spells attached to it, save for the one that displayed the warning. Rudolphus unceremoniously kicked it open with his foot and Rabastan winced. This _was _the burial site of four of the greatest sorcerers in history. His brother _could _do to show a little respect; especially since they would soon (though Rabastan may have hoped otherwise) be asking a favour of one of the wizards.

The tomb was dark but dry. As they passed through the entrance, torches on either side of a winding staircase burned to life, creating an eerie glow down the passage. Before they entered, Rudolphus turned to his brother.

"Do you still have it?" he asked, looking pointedly at Rabastan's pocket. Hurriedly, the younger man checked his pocket and pulled forth a tiny vial, no bigger than his smallest finger. It held a dark red fluid, which had been much fresher twenty-four hours ago. Now there was a thick film across the top. Rudolphus gave his brother a half-smirk. "Good."

With that, he turned on his heel and began descending the stairs. Rabastan followed warily. Rudolphus seemed overly eager to get into a tomb that warned of a thousand curses. Rabastan was fairly certain he didn't even _know of _a thousand curses, let alone the counter spells to them. He silently prayed to whatever deity they were about to infringe upon that the 'thousand curses' bit was just an exaggeration and that it was only written to keep prying eyes away.

Knowing a few great wizards like he did, however, Rabastan highly doubted that the curses were non-existent and with every step, he expected to drop dead. He didn't, however, and it wasn't long until they had reached the bottom of the stairwell. Deep in the earth, the walls dripped with moisture and over the years small stalactites and stalagmites had formed, making it seem as though the entrance at the bottom of the stairs had razor sharp teeth that would clamp down on them the moment they passed.

Rabastan's fears were unfounded and soon they passed into a huge chamber that seemed far too large to be kept hidden beneath the earth. A long path was cut into white stone, creating a large circle around the room. Wide staircases cut from the same stone lead onto four platforms. Pillars made from various colors of crystal stretched high above them and disappeared into the darkness where the ceiling must surely have been. It made the chamber feel as though it were taken from a portion of the Underworld.

It was easy to distinguish which platform belonged to which sorcerer by the colors of the pillars that stood on either side of the stairs leading up to it. To their immediate left were dark blue pillars that gleamed in the dim torchlight. Carved in the stone was a crest that bore a large raven. Beneath it was a name. Rowena Ravenclaw.

Rudolphus didn't even pause to examine the platforms he was passing, but Rabastan couldn't help but admire it all. The craftsman ship of the tomb itself, let alone the structures inside of it was amazing for something that had been built nearly an entire millennia previous. From the tomb of Rowena, a breeze seemed to whisper forbidden knowledge. The yellow pillars that stood to Rabastan's right glittered brilliantly and gave off a sort of cheery warmth. Helga Hufflepuff was written at his feet.

As Rabastan followed his brother, more torches began to light until the room was lit bright enough for them to see all around. From the ceiling (which was now clearly more visible, but still quite ominous and dark) was a huge candelabrum that flickered at them. The light cast off the pillars turned the room into a vestige of colors and it was possibly one of the most beautiful things Rabastan had ever seen.

Still looking around, he followed his brother numbly. As they passed into the back of the chamber, a shiver ran through Rabastan. He felt as though there were something lurking there, though every corner seemed lit with a torch. As of yet, the thousand curses had yet to pass, but it seemed that deep in this recess of the earth, something darker lurked.

The feeling seemed to intensify as Rabastan passed blood red pillars that signified the dais of Gryffindor. But it was beyond that where the real force behind the dark feeling spread from. Thick, dulled emerald columns loomed above him, more threatening than the others had seemed. Though Rabastan hadn't seen a single speck of dust through the entire tomb, this corner appeared to hold all the dust that should have been floating around elsewhere – as though the magic that protected the three tombs had not been placed on this one.

Instead there were other forces that threatened; after all, it was not for the three that the tomb had been built for. It had been for the first to be laid to rest, the darkest of them all.

Salazar Slytherin's corner of the tomb felt colder and as Rabastan followed his brother up the wide steps to the platform, a shudder ran down his spine. Every fibre in his being told him to run, to flee this place and not come back. In the center of the platform was a huge stone coffin, held up by a small pillar in the very middle, as though to give the illusion that the coffin was hovering above ground. The lid was covered in symbols of power, etchings that told the story of the man who lay within in an ancient language. Jewels were laid into the stone, some giving off a dim glow beneath the layer of dust. The Slytherin crest took up a large portion of the center, and upon it two swords were laid, fastened in with hooks.

"Help me with this," Rudolphus said, indicating the lid of the coffin with a jab of his finger. Rabastan couldn't help but hesitate. It felt as though someone were screaming in his head to get away. One of the greatest wizards who ever lived had been laid to rest here. His body lay in the sarcophagus. It seemed wrong on every level to touch the coffin. But he pushed passed the feelings and came up beside his brother, pushing his weight against the lid.

Rabastan would've suggested using magic to move it, but as Rudolphus had previously explained, any magic was to be reserved for the ritual – and getting past the tombs defences. So they both pushed as much as they could, Rabastan's legs and arms aching with the effort.

The seal cracked and a plume of dust billowed out from the edges of the coffin. As soon as it had, it felt as though an alarm had gone off inside Rabastan's head. He knew Rudolphus could hear it, too, because his older brother immediately clapped his hands to his ears, as though that would stop the unheard noise. A gush of wind blew through the chamber extinguishing all of the torches, save for the candelabrum, leaving a chilling glow to settle on the room. Shadows seemed to loom over them and around them. Then, out of the corner of his eye, something moved.

Rabastan rationalized it was probably just the flicker of a torch or the slight shift of the candelabrum making moving shadows. But he knew better.

Slowly at first, but picking up speed, the shadows around them began to move. They seemed to spring to life, moving along the floors and the walls until, Rabastan realized, they had more form than that. Lighting the end of his wand, Rabastan saw smoky beings rise from every crack and surface. Although indistinguishable at first, they soon began to take on humanoid forms, though some were much taller and much smaller than an average person.

The chamber was becoming crowded by them and they were pressing in on Rabastan and Rudolphus, creating a half-circle around the coffin.

"_Expulso!_" Rudolphus roared from behind Rabastan, flinging the spell at the nearest shadow-being. The spell passed straight through, leaving a black, smoky trail. It hit the center pedestal, causing it to explode in an array of light. This only seemed to anger the shadows. As they moved, they made hushed whispers, which grew louder and more fervent at Rudolphus' assault.

A large shadow appeared to take precedence over the others. It moved forward with frightening speed and was soon only a few feet away. It stopped abruptly, and Rabastan could see that it had two brightly glowing eyes. They were green and no more than what appeared to be a bright dot of light set in the shadow's head. As Rabastan looked more closely, he could see each shadow had a pair of dimly lit eyes, varying in colors.

"_We are the shadows of the dead,"_ the large shadow seemed to say, but Rabastan was fairly certain he was not hearing the words with his ears, but rather they were being communicated into his mind. The voice was chilling and echoed; as though all the shadows spoke as one. "_We are the souls that were claimed by His hand. We are the protectors of this tomb." _

Rabastan swallowed thickly and glanced at his brother. Rudolphus looked pale, but no more than usual. He glowered at the shadow, as though his mere force of will would be enough to repel it. Rabastan knew better. He began inching slowly backward towards the coffin. The shadow's eyes appeared to watch him, but it was impossible to tell without an actual face. He could feel his hands shaking and could do nothing to steady them.

"Is that so?" Rudolphus snarled and Rabastan winced. His brother could be impossibly thick sometimes.

"_By our hand, you will die,_" the shadow moved forward, floating up the steps. As it moved closer, flesh and cloth began to materialize. It was transparent, as though the shadow were becoming a ghost. It was odd the way the flesh seemed to creep down the shadow, like a vine growing impossibly fast. Before long, there was a man standing before them. He was the height of Rudolphus and muscled; a warrior of times long gone. His eyes were nothing but black pits, the glowing green dots the only thing remaining of the shadow.

Reaching out his hand, the man motioned upward. Rudolphus feet lifted off the floor and he grasped at his throat, as though the man were strangling him, despite being several feet away and quite obviously incorporeal. Rabastan's brother began to choke, cursing the ghost. None of the other shadows moved. Rabastan vaguely wondered why there were a thousand of them, when clearly one was enough to do the trick.

Thinking fast, Rabastan took the remaining few steps backward and seized the sword that had been laid atop the coffin. He wrenched it from the iron hooks that fastened it in place and rushed forward, pushing past his brother and toward the shadow. It was suicide, surely, but Rabastan did have one single desire left in his pathetic mortal life – and that was to hopefully die from old age, not a thousand ghosts strangling him in some dank tomb.

Rabastan swung the sword wildly, having never really had use of one before. But it was enough. The sword cut through the chest of the shadow-man, leaving a swath of light where it was swung. Immediately the shadow vanished and Rudolphus fell slumping to the ground. Rabastan clenched his jaw and pulled his wand from his sleeve as the shadows surged forward.

"_Protego Saepta!" _Rabastan shouted, flicking his wand in a circle. Immediately a shield sprung to life around Slytherin's platform. At first, Rabastan feared that the shield might not work at all, since clearly Rudolphus' spell had failed catastrophically. But as the shadows closed in on them, they didn't press through the shield. Rabastan breathed a short sigh of relief, but realized quite quickly that the shield would not hold for long. It rippled and pulsed under the pressure of so many shadow-beings forcing themselves against it, attempting to break through.

Rabastan turned to his brother. "We have to raise him _now. _Quickly, or else we're as good as dead."

Rudolphus looked a bit dazed, but he stood on his feet. He turned to his brother and snapped, "Give me the vial."

Doing as his brother ordered, Rabastan handed Rudolphus the vial of blood he'd collected. He wasn't exactly sure how well it would work; there were no direct lines left in Slytherin's lineage and the closest that Rabastan could come to was Harry Potter, who had shared a connection with their Lord. It had taken months to get the small vial of blood with the use of a charmed bat.

Rudolphus went to the coffin and pushed the lid completely off. It clattered to the stone floor loudly and seemed to make the shadows work harder to get through the barrier. Rabastan swallowed thickly. It was now or never and even if they somehow managed to summon Slytherin back into his undead body, who was to say that even the great wizard could expel the shadows? Rabastan had no idea the spell or the deal that had been forged to create them.

Rabastan drew a piece of parchment from his inner pocket and rushed to his brother's side. The spell to summon the dead as they were doing had been lost for centuries and it had only been by complete chance they had stumbled upon it in Russian wasteland. It had been the inspiration to Rudolphus mad scheme and Rabastan could only hope it wasn't fake or caused something much worse to happen.

Rudolphus, who had memorized the spell completely, began speaking the ancient Latin words with fervour. The tip of the gnarled wand glowed brightly; white at first but slowly turning green. Rabastan looked into the coffin of which Rudolphus was pointing and nearly passed out from the sight. He'd seen plenty of gruesome things but this was... well, it was startling to say the least. One might have thought that after nearly a thousand years in a dusty old tomb, his body would be nothing but bone and dried flesh, but it looked as though Salazar Slytherin had only died the previous day. His skin was sunken and pale, but still very much there. His head was very clearly separated from his shoulders – perhaps the wound that had caused his death. Or perhaps it had been removed for an altogether different reason, which would explain why every limb had been severed and there were gruesome symbols painted on the inside of the coffin with some sort of brown, muddy chalk. As Rabastan peered closer, he realized the symbols were painted in ancient blood.

He glanced at his brother, who seemed not to care about the state of the body, but it worried Rabastan. Would this even work if Slytherin's body was in pieces? Worse still, would it work and would they be left with a talking head, removed from its body?

"Interesting," came a quiet voice from Rabastan's left. Since Rudolphus was on his right, Rabastan nearly had heart-failure. He thought for sure the shadows had gotten through and were speaking once more, but when he turned, he witnessed something more terrible than the shadows that still wreathed across the barrier.

It was a man that appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He stood as tall as Rabastan, with bright eyes that seemed to peer into his very soul. He was clean shaven and well dressed in ancient attire; light bronze-plated armour covered his chest and arms. The symbol of Slytherin had been etched into his breastplate, the head of the snake blinking and hissing within the crest. What was most unnerving, however, was that despite all the other things, he looked like a very close replica to the Boy Who Lived. Rabastan felt as though he was staring down Harry bloody Potter.

But it wasn't Potter at all, that was for sure. For one thing, Potter wasn't transparent. He also had short hair and green eyes, unlike this incarnation. But other than that, the similarities were striking and quite frightening.

"Who are you?" Rabastan asked, trying to keep his voice steady but failing miserably. He glanced at his brother, who seemed to have noticed nothing. He was still hunched over the dead form of Slytherin, muttering the incantation. And that's when Rabastan noticed it. Although the Slytherin in the coffin was much older (and by far less attractive), the features he shared with the ghost in front of Rabastan were quite alike. "Wait, you're –"

"Salazar Slytherin, yes," the man said. His voice was youthful and there was a lopsided smirk on his face. But there was also a darkness about him that sent shivers down Rabastan's spine. "But the question should be who are _you_?"

Rabastan swallowed. He thought about extending his hand, but decided against it. For one, you couldn't rightly shake hands with a ghost. For another, Rabastan's hands were shaking so badly that it might have given away something that Rabastan didn't want anyone to know – exactly how terrified of everything he was. The man smiled, as though intending to be encouraging, but it looked far more menacing than anything else.

"Rabastan Lestrange, and my brother, Rudolphus," he motioned with a closed fist to his brother. He bit the inside of his lip. How did Rudolphus not notice?

"Well, you seem much brighter than your brother," said Salazar, folding his arms over his translucent chest. "He is utterly slaughtering that incantation. It is _sublevo_, not _sube-leavo._ What do they teach sorcerers these days?"

Rabastan stared wide-eyed. Part of him couldn't believe he was standing before Salazar Slytherin himself, in full battle armour. The other part was wetting himself in fear. "You know the incantation?"

Salazar snorted. "Boy, I _created _that incantation. But it will not work. All it is bound to do is animate my dismembered corpse. If your brother is lucky, he might summon some unlucky spirit into the bits. Take the blood out of that vial and pour it right here," Salazar stepped away, indicating a spot at his feet – which happened to not be touching the ground. Rabastan nodded, afraid to do anything _but_, and grabbed the vial out of Rudolphus' clenched hand. His brother stopped mid-incantation and snarled at him.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" he snapped at Rabastan. Behind him, Salazar chuckled again.

"Merlin, I knew that old coot," he was saying, but Rabastan was a bit preoccupied with his brother. "Not what he claimed to be. Had a thing for chickens. And boys with the name Arthur. Could never figure out why."

"Just shut it for a moment, alright?" snapped Rabastan at his brother. What was he supposed to do? Listen to his brother and possibly end up with a mutilated zombie, or listen to Salazar, by far a greater wizard than Rudolphus' could even dream to be? Rabastan turned back to the ghostly form of Slytherin. He pulled the stopper out of the vial and poured it on the spot Salazar indicated. Almost immediately the half-smile Salazar had adopted disappeared and was replaced with a look of rage.

"This is not the blood of my descendants!" he snarled, his eyes narrowing. Rabastan couldn't even fathom how Salazar would know at all, but as abruptly as his anger had come, it dissipated. It was alarming and comforted Rabastan about this task very little. In fact, he began to question if bringing about Slytherin was such a good idea – not that he'd thought it had been a good idea in the first place, but they were getting quite close to Rudolphus' dream's realization and it was beginning to twist Rabastan's stomach into knots. "Ha! Better! This will work. Point your wands over here and repeat after me."

It seemed to take hours and yet, only seconds. The incantation Salazar was giving them was nothing like Rabastan had ever heard. For one thing, it didn't sound like Latin at all, but rather an ancient language that Rabastan knew nothing of. Salazar directed them in the proper pronunciation, one minute patient and the next fuming at a stumble over a word. Rudolphus blindly followed his brother's lead, apparently unable to see or hear Salazar; but a sort of numbing state had come over him and Rabastan was sure that it was Salazar's influence.

Then, after repeating the incantation for a third time, something began to happen. The barrier flickered and the shadows screamed. The lights began to flicker and Salazar's ghostly form began to glow impossibly bright. Wind gushed around them, as though Salazar was sucking up all the air. Before Rabastan could think whether they might be in danger, there was an explosion without sound. The light engulfed them and burned his eyes, his skin tingling. It flickered out and blackness surrounded them; though Rabastan wasn't entirely sure it wasn't because he was blind.

"Much better," Salazar's voice came out of the dark. The lights flared to life and for a moment Rabastan had thought nothing had changed. But then he realized that Salazar was no longer transparent, but quite solid. Completely real.

They had done it. They had brought Salazar Slytherin back to life.


	2. Chapter 2: Iniquitas

His feet hit the pavement hard and a painful jolt ran through his legs, but he didn't hesitate or falter. His momentum pitched him forward and he continued on, running hard through the alleyway, dodging dumpsters and leaping over waste bins. He could hear the Aurors shouting behind him, a few hundred meters off, but he'd managed to lose them in a spell that left them in a fog as thick as soup. It would wear off in a couple of minutes, but hopefully by then, he'd be out of their sight.

Draco turned to head down an adjacent alley when a spell came flying out of the fog and hit him in the back with precise accuracy. They did, after all, only send the best. He stumbled and hit a dumpster hard with his shoulder, dislocating it. His shields flickered and his wand went flying from his hand, clattering down a nearby gutter. Cursing his luck and the fair amount of pain his arm was in, he banked in the other direction – towards the second group of Aurors that would be trying to head him off; just what the Aurors behind him would have wanted from him.

Just as he turned the corner, a disembodied hand reached out and grasped the collar of his sweaty black t-shirt, fingers folding in the material and wrenching him off his feet. He slammed into brick wall and his shoulder gave a loud pop as it was forced back into place. He nearly yowled in pain, tears springing to his eyes, but he clamped his mouth shut and gritted his teeth. As suddenly as he had been wrenched off his feet, a thick cloak was tossed over his head and he was suddenly sharing very confined space with an Auror who looked more pissed off than pleased.

"You lost your wand again," Potter hissed, glancing down the alleyway where soon enough his compadres would come looking for the two of them.

"Is that why you brought your cloak?" asked Draco, raising an eyebrow. Potter glared, and released Draco from his grip. They could hear shouts, Aurors trying to put together a barricade.

"Did you get it?" Potter asked quickly. There was no time for their usual banter. Draco gave a quick nod, producing a weathered notebook from beneath his t-shirt. It had been beneath the waistband of his muggle jeans and was damp from sweat. The thick, muggy July heat was not exactly the weather Draco wished to engage in foot-chases in. Potter gave a short nod before throwing the heavy Invisibility Cloak off his head, leaving Draco beneath it. "Stay underneath there. Go straight to the apartment. I'll try and get your wand and meet you there."

Draco didn't respond, but Potter didn't expect him to. He was already rushing off down the alleyway at a run, hoping to cut off the Aurors and not look ridiculously suspicious, though Draco wasn't even sure why he bothered. No one would ever suspect Harry Potter for smuggling a wanted Death Eater from the Ministry.

Draco was sitting on the tattered, plaid chesterfield that was pushed up against the single-room apartment wall when Potter came through the door, his face flushed and his skin wet with sweat. For a moment, Draco was startled, thinking someone had gotten past the wards. He didn't immediately recognized Potter.

It was the first time he realized that Potter didn't look like the wiry kid he'd been in Hogwarts, which was strange since it wasn't as though either of them had changed in the twenty-eight hours it had been since they'd last seen each other.

Maybe it was the dim, warm light cast by the lamp or the fact that it didn't look like Potter had slept in days. There was stubble beginning to show along his jawbone and his dark hair was a tousled mess. Dark shadows underlined his eyes and his glasses sat askew on his nose. A red t-shirt was pulled tight against his broad chest – when had that happened? – and his wand was sticking out of his pocket.

Draco didn't get up and Potter didn't acknowledge him. Potter walked over to the kitchen, which was really just a wooden table pushed against the wall next to the door with a microwave on top and a yellowed mini-fridge shoved underneath. He pulled out leftovers from some dinner with the Weasleys and threw it into the microwave before grabbing a bottle of water and guzzling half of it before he sighed and turned to Draco.

Draco, sitting on a couch that was past its expiry date judging from the heavy, moldy smell that clung to the thin cushions, was attempting to look dignified. It was impossible in his surroundings. There was a lumpy bed pushed not four feet from him, the wallpaper on the walls was peeling and the carpet had been worn straight through to the water-damaged hardwood. Though several charms had been cast, the apartment still smelled vaguely of mildew and weed.

It was his only safe haven, a fact that shook Draco straight through to his core. His mother was safe in a large house in the country, after selling the ancient Manor that had once belonged to the Malfoys, but Aurors constantly monitored it. His father was either hiding somewhere in South Korea or Brazil, having abandoned Draco and his mother when threat of arrest loomed. This small, dingy apartment was the only place Draco was welcome and it was paid for (with cash) by Potter.

Draco still didn't really understand why Potter was helping him at all. Shortly after Aurors had begun looking for him and he had descended into his life on the run, Potter had found him. It wasn't surprising; Potter was one of the best Aurors the Ministry had, even though technically he didn't have his license yet. But instead of arresting him, Potter had offered him a place to stay and an opportunity to fix his life. He said he understood, though Draco wasn't sure how he could.

Sometimes Potter would stay in the apartment with him. Draco never asked why. That was why there was a couch (though Draco never slept on it.) Potter lived with his girlfriend in one of the new, high-end apartments downtown, but for whatever reason that Draco couldn't fathom, he didn't like it. That much was obvious. Draco wasn't even entirely sure that Potter even liked his job. Whenever Draco saw him, he seemed drawn thin and wound tight. He was constantly alert but perpetually tired.

"How much of it did you get?" Potter asked finally, moving over to the shoddy muggle air-conditioner that was propped in the only window the apartment had and slamming his fist against it. It buzzed to life, making occasional clanking sounds. Draco never bothered trying to use it. For one thing, as soon as he touched it, it seemed to explode with clouds of dust and, possibly, smoke, and then stutter to a halt. Potter was the only one who could seem to get it to work – and getting it to work apparently required a firm fist.

"All of it," Draco answered, flipping open the notebook. It was filled with his scrawl, small, thin writing that was neat and refined at first before dissolving into hurried chicken scratch that was half print, half handwriting. It had been a harried dash to get all the information he could and he'd finally done it; he'd collected everything he needed to know to get rid of the burning Dark Mark on his forearm. It was the only evidence that the Aurors had to prove he was a Death Eater. Once it was gone, he would be able to start a new chapter in his life.

The perpetuating idea that the Dark Mark was impossible to remove made it that much better. Once it was gone, who would believe that he'd ever had it?

"What will it take?" Potter asked, crossing the room and sitting beside him on the couch, peering at the notebook. He blinked a few times before shaking his head. "I can't read that."

"Amazing," Draco drawled, glancing over at Potter. "Considering this is by far neater than your writing."

Potter grunted, rolling his eyes.

"It's part potion, part spell, part luck," Draco explained, skimming his notes. "The difficult part is the potion; we'll need Re'em Blood, Graphorn Powder and Moonseed."

"Those are illegal," Potter grimaced, leaning back and resting his head on the back of the couch – a daring move Draco would never try. The fact he was sitting on the couch instead of in the rickety wooden chair that sat further in the corner was something of a miracle. "It shouldn't be a problem. I'm sure there's some in evidence. If not, I'm certain I can track down someone who has them. It just might take a while longer."

Draco shrugged. "It's all right. I'm getting used to finding dead rats in the back of the closet. And I did finally convince the drug den next door to turn down their _awful _music."

Potter gave him a wry look before stretching and standing up.

"I have to go. Ron and Hermione are having a house-warming party and I'm pretty sure they'd appreciate it if I didn't smell," he said.

"I'm sure we would _all _appreciate that," Draco answered, turning back to the notebook. Even if Potter managed to get all the ingredients, it would take a lot of work. And it would be extremely painful, though probably no more than it had been receiving the mark.

"Oh," Potter paused and then lifted up his shirt, revealing a flat, toned stomach. His skin, for all his time spent outdoors, was tanned and very slightly freckled. Draco's eyes landed on the wand tucked in the waistband of his jeans. They narrowed in a varied reaction that was a cross between mortification and incredulous.

"You put _my wand _in your _waistband_?" he asked slowly. A slow flush crept to Potter's cheeks but he shrugged.

"Where else could I hide it?" he said, pulling it out and setting it on the low, pitted coffee table.

"Uh, your boot, maybe?" Draco suggested. He wasn't very sure why it bothered him so much, but the idea that Potter had stuck his wand _there,_ of all places, all willy nilly, irritated him. For one thing, it was ridiculously dangerous. Placing your own wand in your pocket (like Potter insisted on doing) could be damning; placing someone else's wand so close to a dangerous spot on your person was just asking for it. He could have smacked Potter upside the head.

"I didn't think of that," Potter said, rolling his shoulder and turning to the door, grabbing his bottle of water. There was a strange look on his face that Draco couldn't quite decipher, but it seemed Potter was an enigma, something which must have happened only very recently, since in school Potter was an open book of moodiness, anger and trouble. "I'll be back some time tomorrow. The wards are getting weak. They should be okay tonight, though."

"'Should' will not keep me alive when the drug dealers come to slit my throat for destroying their stereo." Draco muttered, but he doubted Potter's wards would fail. They never had and they were the strongest Draco had seen – apart from Albus Dumbledore's. Potter glanced over his shoulder, looking as though he were about to say something (no doubt about the drug den and Draco's solution to his music problem), but he decided against it and simply left, leaving the room dark and silent. Something heavy settled into the pit of Draco's stomach as he listened to Potter's footsteps fading down the hall outside his door.

Tucking the notebook beneath the cushions of the shoddy couch, Draco pulled off his t-shirt and collapsed into the misshapen bed. Blond hair that was too long fell across his face and tickled his nose. His Dark Mark gave a painful twinge and he curled into himself, hugging his arm close to his chest. The Auror were still casting out needle-like arrows, searching for Death Eaters. He had no doubt that even in Brazil or South Korea, his father was feeling the same twinge.

It made him feel connected to something dark and dangerous, trapped in a way that he was sure no one could possibly understand.


	3. Chapter 3: Uncomfortable Being

Darkness swirled into bright, hazy light as Harry arrived in his apartment. He was standing in the living room, facing the huge, clear windows that overlooked the London skyline. The plush, flowery window seat was covered with books and small odds and ends of Ginny's. There was a bundle of parchment and paper, pots of ink and several frayed quills sitting on a TV tray. Ginny's homework.

Stretching his aching muscles, Harry blinked against the setting sun before moving from the spacious living room and through the pale green halls towards the bedroom. The door was ajar and he could see movement from within; whirls of color that moved back and forth quickly. He eased open the door quietly and watched for a moment as his girlfriend held up several different dresses to her chest in the mirror. Her red hair was pinned elegantly on the top of her head, several flyaway curls falling at the sides endearingly. Apart from the dresses she was alternating holding beneath her chin, she was wearing nothing but a thin, satin white slip. Long freckled legs shifted back and forth as she moved side to side.

"Either will do," said Harry casually, striding into the room.

Ginny gave a small shriek and whirled on him, brandishing the hangers the dresses were on like weapons. The sharp movement sent pins popping out of her curls and her red hair went tumbling down her back. Her brown eyes were wide. Upon realizing it was Harry, she let her arms fall to her sides and she tilted her head back and took a deep breath. "_Harry_, you bastard."

Harry couldn't help a small grin, though it was tired and worn. He watched as she slowly turned back to the mirror, though she suddenly didn't seem as enthusiastic about choosing a dress for the party. She watched him through the mirror as he slipped into the adjoining bathroom. Ginny had already picked up his suit jacket and had hung it on the back of the door. It was neatly pressed and had a pale blue handkerchief folded in the breast pocket.

"You're late," Ginny called from the bedroom, sounding slightly exasperated. It was true, of course. He was nearly thirty minutes late and he still had to shower. Gazing at himself in the mirror, he thought he needed much more than that - possibly several days of rest. The dark shadows, though slightly hidden by his glasses, made him look older than he was. He scrubbed the stubble on his chin and plucked another silver strand from his messy black hair. At nineteen, he was already going gray. The silver hairs weren't common, thank goodness, but he could just imagine the heckling he'd get if someone other than himself (or Ginny) ever plucked one from his head.

"Sorry," Harry apologized, but he didn't really mean it. For whatever reason, the party seemed completely unimportant. It was Ron and Hermione's first house; they'd finally saved up enough to afford the down payment (which was mostly in part due to Hermione's dictatorship over their finances). He should feel happy for them and part of him was, but a greater part was worried about the rest of his life – rebuilding and renewing. It didn't seem like the time to be celebrating, even though the war had ended two years ago and if now wasn't the time for celebrating, when would it be?

"What were you doing?" asked Ginny as she came into the bathroom to fix her hair. She'd picked a lavender dress made of silk and taffeta, with pale pink blossoms sewn up into the skirts. A sparkling ribbon had been tied around her waist and where one of the straps met the bunched fabric that dipped low, exposing much more cleavage than Harry thought was appropriate, there was a dazzling pink flower that smelled as though it had been freshly plucked, though Harry knew it was actually made of delicate fabric.

"Digging around in the sewer for a wand. The Death Eater we went after yesterday got away, but he dropped his wand in the gutter," explained Harry. He found it easier to maintain his double life if he kept as much as possible simple and true. It wasn't that he was directly lying, merely leaving out facts.

"That explains the smell," said Ginny as her fingers quickly and expertly slid sparkling pins into her hair, pulling her flaming red hair into a beautiful, coiled chignon. Harry rolled his shoulders and neck, easing the knots out of the tight muscles. He moved slowly over to the shower and turned it on, letting the water run hot. Suddenly, Ginny put her hand on his upper arm and tilted her head. "Are you okay?"

Harry gave her a smile that felt more like a grimace. "I'm fine. Just a long day. I'll be ready in a jiff."

Concern knitting her eyebrows together, she gave a short nod before slipping out of the bathroom, her purple skirt twirling around her smooth legs. The door slid shut behind her and Harry sighed. He wasn't sure _what _was wrong with him, if he was honest. Lately his life had seemed incredibly lackluster – the only excitement was when he was dashing around town, chasing the bad guys or helping conceal the not-so-bad guys. His life lacked excitement, and Harry wasn't sure if that was normal. Could it be he was bored because he _wasn't _constantly fighting for his life? That didn't seem right, but it felt more like the truth than he cared to admit.

The hot, gushing water from the shower might as well have been a luxury spa bath for the wealth of good it did him. By the time he'd stepped out and dried himself off, shaved off the slow-growing beard that was forming and put on his outfit for the evening, he looked a new man. The shadows under his eyes were still there, but less apparent. He tucked a crisp white shirt into his dark denim jeans and quickly pulled the suit jacket over top. It was about as fancy as Harry Potter got.

When he left the bathroom, Ginny was talking into the bedroom phone quietly. Her voice faltered before breaking into a loud conversation about how shoes and Quidditch were not mutually exclusive. Harry knew she'd been talking about him and he could guess that on the other end of the phone was Hermione, who fretted more than she often let on.

"Ready?" Harry asked, grabbing his wallet from the dresser and slipping it into his back pocket. His wand was already carefully tucked up his sleeve in a leather band that held it in place. Ginny quickly ended her phone conversation, nodded and stood, sweeping up a gold clutch and slipping her small feet into matching sandals. Even if their relationship was currently in the category of unsteady at best, Harry would be the first to admit that Ginny looked dazzling. "You look beautiful."

For the first time in a long time, Ginny smiled so brightly at him he felt as though his innards were turning to warm butter. There was a flush to her cheeks and a brightness in her brown eyes that he hadn't seen in a while. It was surreal to him that he'd caused it with such a simple compliment that was merely a statement of fact. She dashed over and quickly took his arm, giving him a peck on the corner of his mouth.

"You don't look too bad yourself," she said, squeezing his arm gently.

In a moment, they were spinning through darkness and unease but both landed deftly on the corner of Hodgins Street where Ron and Hermione lived, concealed behind a high fence and a couple of black waste bins. When they turned out onto the sidewalk, Harry was surprised by how suburban and normal the street was. He'd been there before, of course, before Ron and Hermione had purchased the house, but it had been late in the evening and everything had seemed dark and shadowy. Now, with the warm glow of the setting sun, he could see how beautiful and very _normal_ it was.

White houses lined the street with long lawns and sprawling flowerbeds filled with brightly blooming flowers. They were all relatively new, but not as cookie-cutter as many of the up-and-coming developments were. Each house had a bit of its own character. Some had paved driveways with sleek silver and black cars parked in them. Some had garages tucked in the back. Some had pale blue shutters and others had painted theirs bright yellow. Large, willowy trees stood in a few of the lawns, adding character and flare. It was a nice neighborhood. Harry hadn't spent a lot of time in nice neighborhoods, except for Little Whinging in Surrey, and this was definitely not Privet Drive.

A mother jogging with a stroller passed them by and waved and Ginny grinned and waved back. "I want to live in a place like this some day."

Harry nodded and swallowed. As beautiful as it was, he couldn't imagine himself living in a house like one of these. They were normal and perfect, something Harry was decidedly not. Living in their high-class apartment already seemed like fraud. It wasn't that he didn't want it; it was simply that he just didn't feel comfortable in a place like this. He preferred old stone and weathered wood to the white wash plastic siding and hot concrete. If he had to picture himself living in a full house someday, it was a quiet place out in the country, preferably surrounded by trees.

They came up to Ron and Hermione's house shortly. It was a corner lot, tucked between two large houses. Though the front lawn wasn't much to look at, Harry knew the backyard to be expansive. The house needed work; while it was built in the same vein as the others on the street, it hadn't been well cared for. The lawn was burnt brown by the summer sun and the white paint was chipped and fading. It wasn't much to look at, but Harry knew that Ron and Hermione would turn it into something beautiful. Already Hermione had planted the small flowerbeds beneath the bay window with brightly colored tulips, bluebells and hyacinths. A rose bush crowded the creaky wooden steps up to the front door.

The house was already alive with the sounds of music and people. The front door was propped open with a heavy, ceramic gnome that had come with the property. The last time Harry had seen it, it had been buried waist-deep in the flowerbed. It wasn't getting any better treatment as a doorstop it seemed. It was missing an arm and the tip of its pointy hat had been broken off.

Harry recognized nearly every person in the house. All of his old school mates had shown up; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas were in an animated conversation with Ron over by the overstuffed couch in the sitting room. All of the Weasleys were present, which surprised Harry. He hadn't expected Bill or Charlie to be there at all, but there they were, sitting in a corner with Arthur discussing work or politics. Fleur was trailing behind Hermione, who looked a bit exacerbated by her presence. Fleur was very obviously pregnant and made even prettier by the lovely glow she'd adopted.

There were others there, too, that Harry recognized. Luna Lovegood was standing next to a table laden with food talking to Hannah Abbott, whom was listening to Luna talk with wide-eyes. Harry could only imagine what they were discussing.

The party flowed out into the backyard, which was heavily made up for the occasion. Streamers were strung up along the white fence line, alternating colors every now and then. Fairy lights shimmered through the shrubbery, moving from branch to branch. George was setting off firecrackers that left great plumes of sweet-smelling, colored smoke. There was a small fire pit surrounded by colored stones that would every now and then burst into flame, animal shapes taking form in the dancing fire before the flames would settle back into the warm coals. Lawn chairs were strewn about and there were several self-cooling coolers filled to the brim with alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages.

"Harry!" Hermione cried once she'd laid her eyes on him, quickly hurrying over and wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight hug. She didn't let go right away, taking the moment to quietly whisper, "Save me."

Though Harry's stomach twisted at her words and his heart leapt in nervous anxiety, he quickly realized that she wasn't talking about any immediate danger, but rather her shadow with the baby-bump. Fleur smiled brightly at Harry and he felt his stomach flutter. Her Veela powers seemed only enhanced by her pregnant state and even after years of knowing her, Harry still felt they could probably sway him. Still, he had enough experience not to react and merely shook her hand.

"Harry! Ginny! It's so good to see you," Fleur said quickly, brushing her blonde hair over her shoulder. Ginny returned Fleur's smile with grace and poise (Merlin only knew where she'd gotten that from, growing up with six older brothers.) She and Fleur immediately fell into a conversation about French fashions and how was the baby and did they know if it was a boy or girl yet? Harry watched as his girlfriend led Fleur away and Hermione's shoulders sagged with relief.

"She and Bill," Hermione said with a tight-lipped smile. "Are staying with us for the weekend. They've already been here two days and I've said time and time again, I love them dearly but… Oh, God, Harry, please take them - _at least_ Fleur. She follows me around day in and day out talking about the baby and how adorable Ron and mine will be."

Harry laughed at Hermione's expense, if only because he could completely understand what she was talking about. Only a few months before, shortly after Fleur had found out about her pregnancy, she'd sent copious amounts of letters to Ginny, the majority saying the very same things. Ron and Hermione were very close to actualizing their wedding plans; Harry and Ginny weren't even _engaged_, and the idea of children made Harry feel faint. He was very far from ready to have kids.

"Just another day then," Harry said optimistically. "Arthur and Molly should be finished their renovations by the end of summer and then you'll never have to worry about putting up the French demon again."

Hermione sighed, looking put out, but then she smiled and entwined her fingers in Harry's. "So, how have you been? You look better."

Harry very much doubted Hermione meant that, but she knew it was no help to berate Harry about his health. And in any case, this was meant to be a happy event and neither wanted to spoil it by talking about things that made them tense and uncomfortable. Still, it was difficult not to. Things were changing quickly and permanently and even without imminent danger of death, things were difficult and often uncomfortable.

"Good," Harry responded with a nod, but his eyes drifted to Ginny across the room. She had her hand on Fleur's stomach, her cheeks flushed and she was laughing. She seemed happy. The smile fell off his face. Hermione watched him knowingly and squeezed his hand. "Okay, not great, but… we're getting through."

"Everyone has rough patches," Hermione said quietly, brushing a strand of only slightly tamed bushy brown hair out of her eyes. "Take Ron and I, for example. Our rough patches are from Monday to Friday, eight hours a day, year round."

Harry laughed shortly, but it was only half-felt. His expression quickly turned somber. Still, it felt good to be talking to Hermione, even if it was about something as difficult as his relationship with Ginny. There was a reason Hermione was his best friend. He sighed. "Not like this. We don't connect anymore. There's this giant gaping space that neither of us know how to fill. She's beautiful and funny and I love her, but there's… something missing. She knows it and I know it."

Hermione sighed and set her head against his shoulder briefly. "It will be okay, Harry. I promise. Even if it doesn't work… it will be okay."

Harry couldn't help but wrap his arm around Hermione's tiny shoulders. Life after the war wasn't what he'd expected at all, but there were at least some things that remained constant, things he could always count on. There was no way he could express how much he appreciated his best friends. He smiled at Hermione before shaking his head.

"Anyway," he quickly forced the unsettling topic aside and switched gears. "The house looks great. I see you managed to get the red stain off the ceiling."

Hermione snorted. "It was just pizza sauce, I think. Ron was convinced it was blood and wouldn't go anywhere near it. I spent an hour on a ladder while Ron was coming up with obscene and _completely _ridiculous stories about how it got there."

Harry laughed again and they fell into easy conversation, Hermione explaining their plans for their new house, mingled with nervous agitations about the up-coming wedding. Though Harry couldn't understand at all how missing flower bouquets was a life-or-death situation, he let Hermione vent and nodded as though he understood completely. Every now and then he glanced across the room at Ginny, who had left Fleur with her husband and was now standing at the table, laughing at something Luna had said. Luna was blushing furiously and trying to discretely smooth her homemade, orange paisley skirt.

The night seemed to be going quite smoothly when it happened. At first, it had been only a few pin-pricks and an ache in his shoulders that Harry attributed to work-related stress and a simple headache. But as the house emptied and he sat on the back steps with Ron, he was suddenly doubled over in pain, clutching his head as his vision exploded with white fireworks and it felt as though his skull was cracking and splintering. He managed to bite back a cry, but a moan slipped passed his lips.

"Harry?" he heard Ron say, feeling his best friend grip his shoulder tightly. There were several indistinct shouts, blood thrumming through his ears so loudly he could hear little else. His vision was darkening and he felt as though he were being pulled away to somewhere black and cold. He thought he saw something hazy and pale, a green light that sent a shudder down his spine. But just as suddenly as the pain had come on, he felt a snap as he was sucked back into the present and when he blearily opened his eyes, he found Ginny kneeling in front of him with worry in her eyes, clutching his hands. Hermione was to her left and Ron was bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet.

"Harry, what's wrong? What happened?" Ginny asked, her hands cool against his sweaty palms. The heat stuck his shirt to him and he felt as though his skin was on fire. Though the pain had all but dissipated, there was a dull ache behind his eyes. His throat felt dry and his cheeks were wet and he realized he'd been silently crying. He quickly released Ginny's hand and wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands.

"I don't know," he croaked, sitting up a bit straighter. "It was like –"

He faltered. It was like the pain he'd felt whenever he'd had visions of Voldemort - of when Voldemort had touched his forehead. But this had been worse somehow, perhaps because there was no reason for it to be there in the first place. He swallowed thickly.

"Maybe we should just go home," Ginny said gently and Harry could only numbly nod. He let her pull him to his feet and she wrapped an arm around his waist. Hermione was staring at him with concern, clutching Ron's hand.

"Great party, mate," Harry managed to say, nudging Ron with his elbow. Ron forced a smile and Harry returned it, but the frightening experience had left him hollow. Ginny took him into the house and around the kitchen to a private corner.

"I'll apparate, you just hold on, okay?" she said quietly, brushing the hair from his forehead. Her fingers felt like ice on his temple. She brushed the back of her fingers along his cheek. He nodded. She took both of his hands in hers and soon they were plunged into darkness, Ron and Hermione's house spinning out of his vision.


	4. Chapter 4: Evil Spirits

The flush, rose-colored dawn was just beginning to creep into the apartment when Draco finally pulled himself out of bed. His back was stiff from the spring coils in the lumpy mattress and his right arm still ached from being briefly dislocated. It took a few stretches before he was able to walk around the room without limping. He pulled his shirt off over his head with some difficulty and rubbed his purpling shoulder. He hoped Potter would show up sooner, rather than later. He was terrible at healing, particularly himself, and it would be a relief to have his shoulder fixed up.

Moving from the bed to the kitchen took only three strides. He dug around in the cupboards stuffed with food and mismatched dishes. Finding a clean coffee cup, he pulled a water bottle from the fridge and poured half of it into the cup. The problem with living in this particular building was the water supply. Although most days it ran clear, some days it was dark as pitch or muddy brown. Both Draco and Potter had decided it was best to simply buy water. Emptying the contents of an instant-coffee packet into the mug, he opened the microwave to discover the partially heated leftovers that Potter had shoved in there last night.

"Harebrained lunatic," Draco muttered, pulling out the polystyrene package and dumping it into the garbage, replacing it with his coffee cup. Several minutes later, he had piping hot, burnt tasting coffee. Draco tried what Potter had suggested once, but closing his eyes and picturing delicious Bourbon de Coatepec coffee seemed to just make the instant kind taste worse.

Leaning against the table and wincing as he drank the hot liquid, Draco looked around the apartment. He couldn't help thinking that if he had the proper resources, he could actually make this place livable, but Potter wouldn't even provide him with magazines to flip through. But even amongst the threadbare, damaged furniture, his influence was everywhere. The apartment was as clean as it could get and meticulously organized. His clothes hung in garment bags on a commandeered trolley, his shoes aligned beneath them. Books stood in neat stacks against the wall or on the coffee table. A cup holding his quills on the coffee table stood neatly beside a stack of fresh parchment and an inkpot.

Of course, not having a lot of things made it easy to keep tidy.

Even after his excursion the previous day, Draco was feeling penned in. The apartment could have fit inside his bedroom at the Malfoy Manor and he'd never spent so long in a single room before, even if that single room housed all his worldly possessions. He glanced out the window and then at the door. The wards that hid him and protected him were quite expansive and there were many layers of them, but they didn't even extend to the roof. The furthest he could get outside was the front stoop of the apartment building and avoiding druggies and procurers wasn't exactly his idea of a fun time.

Still, there was an itch in his limbs that couldn't simply be shaken out. Throwing on a thin, cotton thermal shirt, Draco took his coffee cup and crept out of his apartment, slinking to the stairs at the end of the hall silently. Even if he had thudded through the hall and crashed up the stairs, he doubted anyone in the apartment building was awake enough to hear him.

Pushing the roof door open, Draco had left the last of the wards behind. The brisk morning air was more refreshing than his now lukewarm mock coffee. The sun was just peeking over the city skyline, bathing the buildings in a warm, golden glow. Sitting on an old bench that had been pulled closer to the edge of the roof, Draco heaved a sigh. This was as good as it got until the Dark Mark was removed. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the spacious, open grounds of Hogwarts before they'd been riddled with rubble, but the hot, polluted air dulled the image.

There was a pop behind him and Draco nearly splashed coffee all down his clothes as he stood and turned around with the same swiftness that had saved his neck time and time again. When he caught sight of who was standing on the rooftop with him, he dropped his mug as he lost feeling in his fingers, a black numbness sweeping over him as shock poured into him.

"Hello, son," Lucius said with a grim smile. Draco was only vaguely aware of his Dark Mark aching. As shocking as it would have been to simply see his father in this seedy area of muggle London, Draco probably would have quickly overcome it. Seeing his father standing there with two other people, one of whom should _not _have been there, was an altogether matter.

"My, Draco, you look like you've just seen a ghost," Bellatrix Lestrange cackled, pushing back the black hood of her cloak. Draco's hands were shaking and the coffee that had splattered up the leg of his trousers was turning cold, but he could do nothing more than gape like a fish.

Bellatrix was dead. He'd _seen _her justifiably killed. He'd been _glad _that she died. It was impossible in every way that she could be standing mere feet away from him, smiling coldly, slender skeletal fingers twirling her wand in her hand. Yet there she was, as cruel as she was beautiful. Draco had always been afraid of his father, but he'd been absolutely petrified by his aunt. He swallowed, forcing his fear down, consciously trying to steady his shaking fingers.

"You're dead," he stated, his voice barely rising above a whisper. He found himself looking around, looking for Potter, as though he should have been there with Draco. As though, somehow, that would have reassured him. "I _saw _you die."

"You did," chuckled Bellatrix, a long finger trailing along his father's shoulders as she stepped forward. She was only slightly shorter than Draco, but for whatever reason, he felt dwarfed in her presence, as though she and her father were simply looming over him, blotting out the sun and any light and sucking the breath from his lungs. "But by Our Lord, I was granted new life and with it, a new destiny."

Draco drew a sharp breath. Our Lord? She couldn't possibly mean Voldemort.

"He couldn't have granted you _sanity _while he was at it, could he?" Draco muttered under his breath, but Bella suddenly lurched forward with inhuman speed, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling her towards him, practically dragging him off his feet. Undead, impossibly strong _and_ fast? Maybe she'd been turned into a vampire, somehow. The sun glinted maniacally in her eyes. So maybe vampirism was out of the question. Something still wasn't right.

"Draco Malfoy, you will obey me or so help me, I will strangle you with your own entrails," his Aunt hissed. Her breath smelled of rot and blood and Draco nearly choked. He glanced over her shoulder. Lucius stood to the side, and to his left, Rudolphus Lestrange. Both seemed transfixed by Bellatrix. All were absolutely barmy.

Bellatrix reached across with her free hand and grabbed his forearm. Pain lanced up to his shoulder, the Dark Mark flaring and burning his flesh. He could almost smell the charred skin. Setting him on the ground, Bellatrix took her wand and pressed it against the black skin. Draco was too afraid to move, fear making his heart beat wildly and his breath come out in short, shaky gasps. His hand was clenched in a fist to keep his hand from trembling.

He watched in horror as the Dark Mark on his arm shifted and changed, the black running like fresh ink and taking a new shape. The skull vanished and became a snake, so that two slithering beasts were writhing on the inside of his arm. Together they formed a double S, one forward and the other backward and in between them was an ornate broadsword. Draco swallowed.

"The Slytherin sigil," Draco bit out between clenched teeth. His forearm felt as though it had been doused in kerosene and set on fire. He tolerated the pain, years of practice keeping him from crying out, but his fear was welling up, choking him. He felt as though he might collapse, but he locked his knees and straightened his spine, drawing himself up above Bellatrix. "Why?"

For a moment, Bellatrix seemed to beam. "Our new Lord Slytherin gives us direction, gives us life and purpose. You, too, shall follow in his lead."

This time, Draco _did _choke. "_Salazar _Slytherin? I don't know if you got the memo, but he died over _a thousand _years ago. Your 'Lord' is taking a dirt nap."

Bellatrix slapped him hard, her family ring cutting a long score along his cheekbone. His lip bled where it had been clenched between his teeth. Her gaze was a cold fury that seemed to ice over his insides. Draco's hands gave way to the trembling that threatened to shake away his foundation.

"Slytherin is alive and he has given me new life; given us all new lives, so that we may bring this world into a purer state of being," Bellatrix said so quietly, it was hardly more than a threatening breath. "If you refuse to join us, Draco, you will be dead before you hit the ground, I promise that. If you are not with us, you are against us."

There was a tense moment, Draco stomach churning horribly, his mind flying through horrible thoughts, one after the other until he felt as though he were going to be sick. He felt as though he were sixteen again, facing his father and Voldemort, facing a decision that would ruin his life. He hadn't been able to refuse then; how could he refuse now? How could he refuse a man who had brought his dead aunt to life? The idea that Salazar Slytherin was _alive _confounded him and he wouldn't have believed it if Bellatrix were not standing in front of him. She was crazy and possibly dead, but he'd never known his aunt to be a liar. The truth was far more painful.

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but there was a sudden blast as the apartment rooftop door went flying off its hinges, knocking his father to his knees and sending Rudolphus diving to the side. Bellatrix spun around and Draco was unspeakably relieved to see Potter standing in the doorway, sunlight washing over him and making him look very much like an avenging angel.

Potter flicked his wand and Bellatrix went flying off her feet, tumbling past Draco toward the edge of the roof.

"Run!" Potter shouted, and Draco did _not _need to be told twice. He pulled his wand from the leather band wrapped around his upper arm and shot forward toward Potter, sending a disarming spell toward Rudolphus as he caught sight of his uncle raising his own wand.

"Draco," Lucius grabbed Draco's arm as he ran past. His grip was tight and cold and the look of fury nearly sent Draco to his knees, begging for his father's forgiveness. The look made him want to shrivel up and disappear, run from that hateful gaze that seemed to spear his heart. "If you do this, you are dead to me. This will never be forgiven. If you run from me, the next time we meet, I _will _kill you."

Draco trembled from head to foot. His gaze darted between his father and Potter who was casting strong wards as they spoke.

"I –" he faltered, feeling small and frightened. He felt as though he were seven again, seeking his father's approval. Going on his first hunt and bringing back a dead pheasant, holding it proudly in his hand, his father turning away and clicking his tongue in disproval. Memories flashed through his mind. He was eleven, sorted into Slytherin and proud, but his father saying it was to be expected and nothing to be proud about. Anyone could get into Slytherin if they wanted. Memories of what he had done to seek approval he'd never truly gotten. Horrible things he had done in the name of his father so that once, just once, Lucius would look at him like his son, his true heir.

Doubt swam over him. No matter what he did, Lucius would never approve. Lucius would never love him. He'd spent years vying for something that would never exist for him.

Wrenching his arm away, Draco fixed his father with a cold glare of his own. He wanted to say something clever, something like, 'The next time we meet, you will be the one to die.' But his voice was trapped in his constricted throat. He couldn't say anything. He tore his gaze away and turned and ran. Potter reached out to him and grabbed his hand, pulling him through the small opening he'd left in his wards before closing them.

It wouldn't take the three Death Eaters long to break through them. They didn't have any time. Draco continued past Potter, flying down the stairs several at a time.

"Where are you going?" Potter shouted before running down after him.

"The book," Draco breathed, shoving his way through the door to the apartment that had been safe. He dove for the couch and tugged away the cushion, grabbing the black notebook. Knowing the book was safe and in his possession sent a wave of relief over him, but they weren't out of danger yet. Potter put his hand on Draco's shoulder.

"We have to go," he said, glancing behind him as though he expected Bellatrix to burst through the door at any moment. Draco nodded once and suddenly they were spun into darkness, the unease of apparating gripping him behind the naval. Just as suddenly as they had popped out of the apartment, they popped into another one that Draco didn't recognize.

Potter's shoulders sagged and he immediately collapsed into a nearby, honey-colored sofa. Draco felt as though they should still be running, still be trying to find some place to hide. He felt as though he should dive under the glass coffee table or hide in the gauzy, lace curtains, even though neither were much of a hiding place at all. But then, he realized, they were in Potter's apartment and Potter's apartment was safe. For now.


	5. Chapter 5: Safe House

There was a tense silence while Harry sat with his head in his hands, his mind working through what he'd thought he'd saw. Malfoy kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking around the apartment uneasily. Harry knew they couldn't stay there long. The apartment was protected, but not protected as well as Malfoy's apartment had been and somehow that hadn't been enough. Never mind that there was a chance Ginny could come home at any moment, and he doubted finding him at home with Malfoy when he had said he'd be at work wasn't going to do wonders for his already declining relationship.

His stomach kept twisting at what he was sure he'd seen. Lucius Malfoy, Rudolphus Lestrange and… Bellatrix. He knew she was dead; he'd watched her die. The only possible explanation for her to be there was that it wasn't her at all. It had to be a Polyjuice Potion or some other incarnation of it. There was simply no other explanation, though Harry couldn't even begin to fathom why someone would disguise themselves as a dead Death Eater.

But there was something else. Lucius Malfoy had been there to collect his son, which had been obvious.

'_If you run from me, the next time we meet, I _will _kill you._'

Harry could hardly believe that anyone's father would say that to him, but knowing that it was Lucius and knowing what little he did about Malfoy's life, he didn't doubt Lucius' words. For that brief moment, while Harry had worked on the wards, he'd been sure Malfoy was going to leave with Lucius. Harry had dreaded that all he done, all he had worked towards had crumbled away to nothing in that instant. No one could understand the relief he'd felt when Malfoy had refused him and had run to Harry.

But he was still worried. Something had happened on the rooftop before he'd gotten there. Malfoy was obviously shaken, though perhaps that was in part due to Lucius' words. Malfoy was pacing back and forth, rubbing his forearm where the Dark Mark was. Panic was written plainly across his features and Harry knew he had to do something before Malfoy became a mess. Besides that, they couldn't say in Harry's apartment any longer.

"Come on," said Harry, standing up and gripping Malfoy's forearm to stop him from scratching at it. He knew that would come next. When he'd first found Malfoy, a year after the war, Malfoy had been a mess. His clothes had been filthy; he'd obviously been living in alleyways and abandoned basements, eating very little and seeing very little daylight. He'd been pale and starved and scared. Malfoy would never admit it, but he had been running as much from himself as he had been from everyone else. With Voldemort gone, he hadn't had to worry about his mother or father; just himself and that had turned him into a blithering fool. Harry had found him hiding in a corner, his forearm torn and bloody from his own fingernails digging into the skin, trying to tear away the Dark Mark.

It'd been a horrible sight. Harry knew it wasn't Malfoy's fault. He'd done everything he could to protect his family and Harry could respect that, even if he'd done some terrible things and was a bit misguided. But now, trying to protect himself, Malfoy didn't even know _how. _So Harry had done it for him. He'd rented the seedy apartment because it was cheap and the money wouldn't be missed and no one would think to look for Malfoy there. He'd set up ward upon ward to keep Malfoy sheltered from Aurors and Death Eaters alike. It had been his personal mission to keep Malfoy from being killed or worse, ending up in Azkaban.

It seemed everything he'd done hadn't been enough and he could see Malfoy's resolve, the thick exterior he'd built over the past year, dissolving around him. Harry couldn't let that happen.

He apparated with his hand still tight around Malfoy's arm. They landed in front of 12 Grimmauld Place. Malfoy couldn't see it and he was glancing up and down the street nervously, as though he expected his father to come around the corner. To be honest, Harry wasn't entirely sure they were out of the woods yet, but he didn't show his own worry. It would only make Malfoy worse.

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place," Harry said, pointing in front of him. Being the Secret Keeper of the headquarters let him easily reveal it to Malfoy. He watched Malfoy's face as his eyes widened in astonishment, as he was no doubt watching what Harry had first seen when the house had been revealed to him. A house, seemingly squeezing up out of the ground and pushing its way into existence, appeared before him so suddenly that if he blinked once or twice, he was likely to miss the whole thing.

"What is this place?" Malfoy asked as Harry lead him up the front walk and toward the door. He pulled out his keys from his jeans pocket and slid an ancient looking one into the lock. At once it clicked and the door opened, revealing a dusty, dark hallway. The portrait of old Mrs. Black still hung on the wall, covered with a curtain that had been nailed into the wall to keep from flying open at inopportune moments.

"It used to be the Order of the Phoenix headquarters," Harry explained, quickly shutting the door behind him. "It's completely hidden. I'm its Secret Keeper, so no one can get in unless I allow them."

Malfoy nodded, understanding at once. Harry hadn't; a house appearing out of no where had been a great feat to him and the idea that someone could be the Secret Keeper of a whole house hadn't occurred to him. But Malfoy had a deeper understanding of the sorts of things that kept the Magical community safe.

Harry led him away down the hall towards the kitchen. Malfoy followed silently behind, his fingers nervously plucking at a stray thread on the sleeve of his shirt. Once in the kitchen, Harry set about making a pot of tea, grabbing a jar of herbs that would help ease Malfoy's nerves. If Harry tried to talk to him about what happened now, Malfoy would close up or become snappish and they wouldn't get anywhere.

"Well," Malfoy said behind him, sitting at the table and folding his hands in front of him. "This is nearly as bad as the flat."

Harry snorted. "It's just… dusty. It hasn't been used in two years. We come and go to get books and other things that were left here, but no one has lived here since…"

He trailed off. Since the war. Since he defeated Voldemort. He wasn't sure why, but he didn't want to say those things out loud. Not when they'd just faced down three Death Eaters, one of whom was surely dead. And it seemed wrong, some how. Grimmauld Place seemed to be stuck in time, somewhere before the end of the war. Harry sometimes felt as though Remus would come out of the library with a book in hand, searching for tea. Or that Fred and George were still off hiding in a bedroom somewhere, planning a prank that would lighten the mood of its inhabitants.

The teapot began to whistle loudly and Harry pulled it off the stove, pulling down two dusty mugs and quickly giving them the once over with his wand. He brought everything over to the scuffed wooden table. He'd dug out spoons from one of the drawers and had found packets of sugar buried amongst some tongs. There wasn't any cream, like he knew Malfoy liked, but that couldn't be helped. Anything that was perishable had been tossed out long ago.

Malfoy didn't complain though. He dumped three packets of sugar into his tea and drank it quickly. Harry couldn't help noticing that his hands were still shaking slightly. He wanted to grab them to stop them from trembling, but he resisted, knowing Malfoy wouldn't exactly react well to it.

Finally he asked, "What happened?"

Malfoy explained in short, shaky sentences. He'd gone up to the rooftop, though Harry had warned him time and time again that it wasn't protected and that he shouldn't go up there. He'd been drinking coffee when his father had shown up with Bellatrix. Harry was horrified to learn it _was _Bellatrix, at least as far as Malfoy explained it. And for whatever reason, Harry trusted Malfoy's deduction. Bellatrix was, after all, Malfoy's insane aunt. Then he reached over and exposed his forearm where Harry knew the Dark Mark to be. Malfoy had only let him see it twice, but he could tell instantly that it was different.

The skull was missing and had been replaced by another snake, entwined around a sword. He'd seen the insignia before in old History texts. It was the Slytherin sigil.

"So, Bellatrix believes she's serving Salazar Slytherin?" Harry asked incredulously. It was impossible to believe that one of the Founders of Hogwarts had come back to life, over a millennium after his death. Not much was known about the Founders, but they were most assuredly dead.

"Believes or not, my Aunt is back from the _dead_," Malfoy said, seeming steadier than he had been in the past hour. The herbs were obviously helping, though his fingers still trembled occasionally. "And they want me to serve Slytherin. If you hadn't shown up…"

Harry knew the implications of the sentence. If he hadn't shown up, it was unlikely Malfoy would have refused his father. He would have gone with them. He would have been dragged into whatever mess his family had created for him, whether he liked it or not.

"You should stay here," Harry said, finishing the last of his tea and standing up. There were things he needed to figure out. And he needed to warn his friends. If there was an uprising what was left of the Order needed to know about it. He would keep Malfoy out of it as much as possible, and hopefully they would be able to stop whatever was going on before it escalated. "It's not as bad as the apartment. There's a garden out back and a library just down the hall."

"Fantastic," Malfoy said, though he sounded less than enthused. "More hiding."

Harry gave him a wry smile. "I'll be back tonight."

Malfoy looked up at him and nodded. Whether he liked it or not, Harry wasn't leaving Malfoy alone for longer than a few hours. He couldn't trust what he might do. Even if Harry wanted to believe him, believe _in _him, he knew there was a chance that Malfoy might willingly go to his father.


	6. Chapter 6: The Lion Himself

"Thanks for inviting me over," Luna said as Ginny let her into the apartment, smiling brightly. It was just a little past noon and the high-rise apartment was lit with mid-day sun. Ginny took Luna's turquoise bolero from her and hung it in the shoe cupboard before leading her into the living room. Luna's eyes were wide and her mouth fell open a little. "You _live _here?"

Ginny laughed. She understood Luna's reaction. Compared to her room at the Burrow and every other place she had lived in her short life, the apartment was sleek and modern and shiny. There was a flat, plasma television in a glass cabinet against the wall, rugs with pale beige whorls on them and a leather, honey-colored couch and matching loveseat situated around a glass table. The kitchen and bathroom were very much the same; polished granite counter-tops, black and stainless steel appliances and smooth, tile flooring.

"Sometimes I can hardly believe it myself," she said, grabbing Luna's hand and dragging her over to the sofa. She'd already set out a pitcher of homemade iced tea with raspberries and chipped ice floating in it along with cups and fluffy, buttered scones on a silver platter. "But I do miss home. Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a magazine spread."

Luna smiled warmly, taking a seat on the edge of the couch and folding her hands in her lap. "I liked your old room at the Burrow. It suited you better."

Ginny couldn't help a grin. She missed the days in between fourth and fifth year, when Luna would come over and they would stay all day in her room, lying on Ginny's bed upside down and staring out the skylight. When Luna would help Ginny with her homework and Ginny would explain Quidditch and they would both make their own clothes – Ginny's fashionable, while Luna's unique.

"How is your correspondence going?" Luna asked, eyeing the pile of books and papers Ginny had abandoned on the window seat. She could feel her cheeks heat a little.

"Fine," she said idly, not meeting Luna's gaze. "Terrible. It's difficult. I mean, it wouldn't be half so hard if everything weren't partially in French."

Ginny had been taking correspondence courses through Beauxbatons, completing her education the way most of the students who hadn't graduated Hogwarts were. Luna had done the same, but she'd actually gone to Beauxbatons the previous year and studied in France. Luna spoke fluent French, unlike Ginny, who could only say 'Where is the bathroom?' and 'You have terrible shoes.'

"I could help," said Luna, setting her hand on Ginny's knee as she reached over and grabbed a scone, breaking it in half.

Ginny flushed before grinning. "That would be great. I could really use the help. Harry is worse than I am. He thinks _poisson _means poison."

Luna laughed a light tinkling sound that Ginny thought should have belonged to a fairy, not a grown girl. Ginny was acutely aware of how the room temperature seemed to have risen several degrees. She took the other half of Luna's scone and popped it in her mouth. She would have liked to have said she'd made the delicious, buttery delight but Ginny couldn't cook anything to save her life and Luna knew it. The last dinner she'd tried to cook had come out black and tasted like old leather shoes. She'd taken a plastic dish full of the scones from the Burrow when she and Harry had had dinner there the previous weekend.

Luna opened her mouth to say something, but there was a sharp rap at the door that made Ginny jump a little. She wasn't expecting anyone and hadn't buzzed anyone up. She glanced at Luna before standing and making her way over to the door. She slipped her wand out of her belt strap and hid it in her loose sleeves. She peered through the peephole, but whoever it was was standing too much to the left and all she could see was light brown hair pushed behind an ear.

Pulling the door open, Ginny was surprised to find herself face to chest with a complete stranger. A man roughly in his late twenties stood on the threshold, a mane of such light brown hair it almost seemed gold pushed behind his ears. Sparkling green eyes peered out from beneath a lock of the golden hair. His expression was entirely too serious, but that wasn't what made Ginny's heart leap into her throat.

The man looked like Harry. Not identical, as a twin, but more like an older relation; like a brother. He had Harry's green eyes and his stubborn chin, and judging by the shape of his mouth, probably the same smile. He had tanned skin as though he worked in a field all day and Ginny knew Harry to get that way after a day playing Quidditch in the sun.

"Hello," Ginny said nervously, glancing back at Luna whom was peering around her curiously. She wasn't sure how Luna could miss the man in her doorway; he was nearly a foot taller than she was and at least twice as wide, broad shoulders enhanced by the beige trench the man wore.

"Is this the residence of Harry Potter?" asked the man, his voice gruff and foreign sounding. He held up a copy of Witch Weekly. It was bent to the article that had recently been written about Harry – or rather, the Boy Who Lived. It had denoted all of his struggles in the war, written as though it were a fairy tale rather than grim reality, and was followed up by 'what he was doing now'. Which, apparently, didn't include Ginny.

"Yes," said Ginny hesitantly. "But he's at work right now. Is he expecting you?"

"No," the man said with a shake of his head. "Nevertheless, I have dire need of his assistentia."

Ginny gaped at him. "His _what?_"

"Oh," the man looked startled and paused a moment, his brow furrowing. "Assistance."

There was a hand on Ginny's back that nearly made her leap out of her skin before she recalled Luna, who had crept up quietly behind her. She was staring at the man as though he were a painting, which was odd but not unlike Luna. She kept shifting her gaze, tilting her head to one side and then the other. Then she'd step forward and bend a little, looking up at him and then moving back. Coupled by Luna's oddness, the situation was simply weird.

"Uh, Luna?" Ginny murmured, feeling it was probably necessary to mention to her friend that staring at someone like that was thought of as rude.

"What did you say your name was?" Luna asked, straightening up. She was still a bit shorter than Ginny and thus very tiny compared to the stranger.

"Ah, how ill-mannered of me," the man stood straight, before bowing slightly and taking Luna's hand, kissing the air above her knuckles. Ginny watched wide-eyed. "Godric Gryffindor, at your service."

Ginny erupted into laughter. She clutched her sides. Godric Gryffindor? This had to be one of Ron's stupid jokes - probably an attempt to make Harry smile, which seemed harder and harder to do these days. She wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes. "Merlin, Godric Gryffindor? Did Ron put you up to this?"

"Ginny," Luna tugged at Ginny's sleeve, but she was still giggling into her hand.

"Ah, I am not certain who this 'Ron' is, but I can assure you, he did not put me up to anything," said Godric. Ginny snorted, turning away slightly to look at Luna. She was surprised to see that Luna wasn't laughing at all, but in fact looked rather serious. Luna may have been a bit barmy at times, but she _did _have a sense of humor.

"Ginny, I think he really _is _Godric Gryffindor," Luna said, glancing at the man and then back to Ginny. "Do you have one of your old history text books?"

"Uh, yeah, I think," Ginny said, straightening. "Luna, you aren't really buying this, are you?"

Luna gave her a look. Ginny had been on the receiving end of Luna's look before, and decided she better just do what the other girl asked before she was getting an earful of explanations and reasonings that only confused Ginny further. She left Luna with Godric and slipped into the bedroom. Her old school trunk was tucked into the back of the walk-in closet and she spent a few minutes digging around in it before she found an old copy of her fourth year history text. It was frayed and falling apart, but it would do.

When she came back into the foyer, Luna was still staring at Godric with her hand on her chin, while Godric stared back, his arms folded over his chest.

"Sorry to end your freaky staring contest, but here's the book," Ginny said, handing Luna her history book. Luna plucked the book from her fingers and stared at it a moment as though it were covered in fur.

"You really need to take better care of your books," she whispered, as though afraid to offend Ginny in front of Godric. "Or they won't take care of you."

Luna opened the book gingerly while Ginny stood staring at her with a bewildered expression. How were books supposed to _take care _of her? Never mind that this was a textbook she'd never planned on using again. She was pretty sure her dormitory had used it as a doorstop.

"Here," Luna said finally, holding open the book and moving into Ginny's side. She pointed at a full-page portrait of an old oil painting that had been painted over a thousand years ago. The man in the portrait moved from side to side in a surly way, his arms folded over his broad chest. His hair was painted with shimmering golds and every so often he pulled a sword from a scabbard at his side. The sword of Gryffindor. She recognized it instantly, feeling as though she could never forget the dazzling rubies and sharp blade. Drawing her gaze away from the sword, she looked from the painting to the man in her doorway.

"_Merlin's sweaty shorts_," she breathed, brown eyes wide.

Godric bloody Gryffindor was standing in her doorway.


	7. Chapter 7: The House of Black

Draco was alone in Potter's secret house, walking through the halls and dragging his fingertips along the worn, shabby wallpaper. Potter had left an hour earlier to do Merlin knew what, leaving Draco behind to hide. Again. If it weren't for the fact that Draco knew he was probably dead the moment he stepped out the door, he might have felt like a prisoner.

He'd already meandered through the library, which looked like any old, dusty library to him. It had been built in very much the same way the library at the Malfoy Manor had been built; circular shelves lining the curved walls filled with old books that whispered forbidden knowledge and were falling apart at the seams. The center of the room had been sunk into the ground, the steps made of creaky wood and tile. But it was so filled with dust that Draco hadn't been able to spend more than a few minutes looking around without sneezing and sniffling and wiping his eyes.

So he'd left the library, passed the kitchen and was now on the upper landing of the stairs, staring down a long, empty hallway that was like those he'd seen in dreams; an endless corridor with doors on either side, all shut and locked. Every now and then there was a branch as the hallway went in another direction and another. Draco had a feeling if he wasn't careful, he would get easily lost.

Then again, he was leaving footprints in years of dirt and dust that would be easy to follow back to where he started.

Potter had told him to find a room – one that was preferably not as gross as the rest. It didn't matter which, apparently, because they'd all been cleared and readied for guests when the house had been shut up. So Draco simply began trying doorknobs. Many were locked. When one finally opened, he found himself standing in an empty office.

There was a thick wooden desk at one end with nothing on it but an old lamp, swinging burgundy and gold tassels lining the lampshade. The dark, near-black purple curtains had been pulled back from the window. It looked into the neighbors yard, which wasn't anything impressive but it let in the early afternoon sunlight and lit up the whole room. The natural light didn't do the room any favors, dust particles drifting in the hazy air.

Draco was about to shut the door when he spotted something along one wall. At first he'd thought it was just old, discolored wallpaper. But as he neared, he realized he was staring at a family tree - _his _family tree. The names of his ancestors were written at the top and through long twisting branches, he managed to find his name at the bottom. There were some names that had been burnt from the paper, but he could easily guess whom they belonged to. It wasn't the first time he'd seen this family tree. There was a thick book of Black ancestry his mother owned, and this had been in it.

It was strange, though, looking at the abundance of names on the wall and knowing there were so few left alive on it. He sighed and put the tip of his wand to his name. The paper flared once and his name was blotted out. He was as much a part of the Black family now as Sirius Black or his Aunt Andromeda and her family. Something twisted in his chest, a mix of emotions that left him feeling hollow.

As Draco made his way out of the room, shutting and locking the door with his wand, he couldn't help but feel the irony of the old house. It'd spent years standing proudly in the Black family name, housing Purebloods and muggle-haters and yet, in the past few decades had been used as just the opposite – a safe house for those against them.

For whatever reason, Draco didn't feel entirely welcomed by the thought.

He came across one other room that made his stomach lurch at seeing it. It wasn't technically a room, but it seemed to have been used as one. There was a tiny, lumpy bed pushed into the back of the broom cupboard and mounds of random odds and ends in piles around it. Candlesticks, lamps, a set of tarnished spoons, a small stack of books, a heavy mirror with a gilded frame, a dagger with a hilt decorated with onyx and jade and a small silver box overflowing with jewelry. All of these things had the Black crest or some other variant sigil etched into them.

He felt as though he were looking at a rather messy shrine to the Black family. There were even worn photographs propped up around the very small bed. There were several with his mother in them and several more with Bellatrix, though they were both significantly younger in them than they were these days. Though, now that he thought about it, Bellatrix had looked more as she did in these photos than she had before she died.

And then come back to life. Draco shuddered and shut the door. He felt as though she might be watching him through those photos and he couldn't stand the idea. He did as he had done with the study and locked the door.

He finally found one of the guest rooms down one of the adjacent halls. It was as dusty as the rest, but not so bad as the library. He managed to clear away most of the dust and dirt with a few spells. He grabbed the sheets that were folded in a neat stack at the foot of the bed and shook them out before making the bed with them. They were plain white and cotton, but of much better quality than the sheets he'd been using at the apartment.

Draco found several thick blankets in an armoire that had been saved from the settling dust. Each was a dark maroon with black and gold stitching. He tossed them behind him onto the bed, discovering a page that had been folded and hidden in the back of the wardrobe. There was thick, crumbling black wax seal on it and the page was brown with age. It was already broken and Draco unfolded it with care, bits of the edges flaking away.

There was nothing on it. It seemed strange that there was a sealed page in the back of an armoire, but stranger with nothing written on it. Then again, he thought, the Blacks were considerably strange people. With a shrug, he pocketed the page and went to the window to throw open the weighted curtains.

The window in this room looked out onto the front yard and into the street where he and Potter had come from. He wasn't sure how, since he was nearer the back of the house, but now that he thought about it, the study had had a window and it had been set directly in between two hallways and another room. Draco stood for a moment, staring out the window until he realized that someone was staring back.

Not at him, of course, but at the house. Or where the house should be, if they couldn't see it.

Whoever it was, they were wearing a bold blue cloak of velvet that was puckered around the hood. Draco couldn't help but think that velvet in this weather would have been asking for heatstroke. Pale, slender hands darted out of belled sleeves and pushed the hood of the cloak back, revealing a young woman who didn't seem, at this distance, much older than Draco.

He was certain of one thing and that was that he didn't recognize her, whoever she may have been. She had incredibly long black hair that spilled over her shoulders and past her waist. Her features were angular and refined and his chest seemed to tighten when he realized how much like his Aunt she looked, but considerably less insane. There was no wild look, that he could tell, in her eyes. She turned her head slightly and withdrew a wand, pointing it in the direction of the house. He watched her pale, thin lips move and a blue, swirling orb appeared.

With a flick of her small wrist, the orb came hurtling toward the house, just beneath Draco's window. He shrunk back, expected a blow or any sort of loud noise, but nothing happened. The house did not shake, nor did it seem to appear before her, since she hadn't moved from her spot on the other side of the street. The blue orb drifted slowly back to her and vanished in the palm of her hand.

The strange woman shook her head, as though disappointed, and with a pop, was gone.


	8. Chapter 8: Raised Hell

Harry was at work, trying to figure out everything he could about the Death Eater's latest moves – why they had come out of hiding, if anyone else had noticed, and if there had been any recent rumors involving Salazar Slytherin – when the message from Ginny came. Most messages were relayed by the secretariats through the buzzing paper airplanes. This was given directly by a young man who probably should have been doing summer homework for school rather than working in the Ministry of Magic delivering messages.

The message was apparently only two words: _Get home_.

Immediately Harry thought of Hogwarts; it was more home to him than any place he'd lived. But of course that wasn't where home was. He rushed out of the office and into the lift that deposited him in the front lobby of the Ministry where he apparated to his apartment in a flash.

When the dizzying blackness of apparating lifted, Harry found himself in front of three people: Ginny, Luna and a man he didn't know. They were all three sitting around the glass coffee table, drinking tea and eating the scones Ginny had taken from the Burrow. He blinked. From the urgency of the message, he'd thought he'd come home to an apartment torn to bits and his girlfriend staving off Death Eaters in the bedroom. Instead, she was eating buttery biscuits with her best friend and a man that was at least a decade older than her.

Before Harry could say anything, Ginny had dropped her teacup onto the table with a clatter and was dragging off toward the bedroom. She pushed him inside and shut the door tightly behind him, turning on him with an expression that was a mix between anger and bewilderment.

"Harry, _what _is going on?" Ginny asked, her voice low but her words forceful.

Harry swallowed. His thoughts instantly went to Malfoy – the year of smuggling him around London, keeping him hidden from Harry's friends and the Ministry. That was the only thing that could explain Ginny's urgency. His mind raced with excuses, but could come up with none.

"I – I don't…" he began to say, but Ginny immediately launched herself into a tirade.

"Do you know who that is sitting out there? That man?" asked Ginny and Harry opened his mouth before realizing that Ginny wasn't going to let him finish and he could only shake his head. "My best friend and I are drinking tea and catching up when who knocks at the door? Godric bloody Gryffindor! What the _hell, _Harry? What is going on?"

It took Harry a moment to process. And when he had, he could barely do anything but sit on the edge of the bed and stare at Ginny.

"Godric… Gryffindor?" he asked, glancing at the door. "Look, Ginny, I have no idea _what _is going on, but it's something big…"

"Duh!" Ginny threw up her hands. "You know, Harry, I put up with a lot – the late work nights, the weekend raids, the fact that you're never home and when you are, you're distant and tired and you barely even look at me and then _this_? You're at work and suddenly a man who is roughly a thousand years old comes knocking on our door, looking for you! I know you, Harry, you always know what's happening before everyone else, but you couldn't have warned _me_?"

Harry opened and shut his mouth like a fish out of water. Well, most of that might have been true (and partially lies he had told), but was it really fair to blame the _entire _thing on him?

"Ginny, I swear, I didn't know about any of this until this morning," Harry said, standing up and grabbing Ginny's hands to stop her from pacing back and forth and wearing a hole straight through the carpet. "And I definitely don't know why Godric Gryffindor is sitting in my living room."

Ginny let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging. Harry had a feeling he'd said the wrong thing, but she didn't say anything, only shrugged.

"He wouldn't tell us," she said finally, blowing a strand of red hair out of her eyes. "He said he'd only speak with you. Come on."

Ginny grabbed his hand and lead him from the room, this time less forcefully than she had pushed him into it. She seemed tired and frazzled, though Harry had a feeling it had very little to do with the man who'd partially founded Hogwarts sitting on his couch. When entered the sitting room, Luna was explaining the cars that had apparently nearly run Godric Gryffindor over while he'd been crossing the street to their apartment.

"Godric," Ginny said, and the man stood up. He was two inches taller than Harry and quite wide-set in the shoulders. Harry felt as though he were standing next to a particularly fearsome lion, a man who dwarfed him completely. He couldn't even begin to fathom why the very not-dead legend needed to speak to him. Ginny waved her hand between the two. "This is Harry. Harry, Godric."

Godric gave him a short nod and shook his hand, his grip so tight that Harry thought for sure he was going to break every bone in his hand. It was a relief when he let go and they both sat down. There was a tense silence between the two men before, finally, Godric spoke.

"Salazar Slytherin has been raised from the dead."

Harry heard Luna give a small gasp and Ginny was gaping at Godric beside him. He waited for Godric to go on, but when he didn't continue, Harry was left to simply nod.

"I know," he answered. He felt Ginny's hot gaze on him and his cheeks burned. If she got any better at _glaring_, he was afraid that she would soon be able to turn people to piles of ash. "I had a run in with a group of Death Eaters who were swearing loyalty to him. I didn't believe them, at first, but one of them was…" he glanced at Ginny. "Bellatrix Lestrange."

"_What?_" said Ginny, her cheeks turning red and her fury was palpable in the air around them. Already her hands were trembling in rage. The Weasley temper was renowned, but Ginny seemed to have it worse than any of her brothers. He could understand her anger; he knew Ron would feel the same way when he found out and he knew Molly would be doubly so. "She is _not _alive. Mum killed her. We _burned their bodies._"

Godric cleared his throat and both Harry and Ginny's attention snapped to him as though he'd cracked a whip.

"Salazar, in my time, was extremely educated in the Dark Arts. He created many horrific spells and many of them included raising the dead. I imagine now his power has grown considerably and he could raise friend or foe effortlessly from beyond the veil," Godric explained, his words punctuated with a thick accent that Harry couldn't distinguish. "From what I have gathered thus far, he already has a considerable following. If he is raising others, then he is raising an army."

Godric said all this, as though expecting them to understand. Harry did understand a little, but most of it didn't seem to coincide with knowledge Harry possessed.

"I don't understand," Luna said, looking deeply puzzled. "Raising the dead is impossible. It was proven that it couldn't be done. The closest to undead you can get is the Inferi and they can't speak or do any more than shuffle around."

"I hid and destroyed many things before I died. All of Salazar's works in the Dark Arts, all of his discoveries. I used the last of my magic to destroy any knowledge of raising the dead and cursing the knowledge that I could not destroy so that no one would ever be able to recreate it's effects. That curse has worn away over time. It seems someone ascertained how and decided to raise Salazar, as I always feared. He is an incredibly powerful sorcerer and committed to destroying any non-magical being," explained Godric. "And from what I have read and seen, it seems your time has many more willing followers of his mad beliefs than he did before."

"Then what do we do to stop them?" asked Luna, who seemed to be the only one able to speak. Ginny was still furious that Bellatrix was alive, and possibly furious at Harry for something he didn't rightly understand and she looked ready to bite the head off anyone who spoke to her. Harry, on the other hand, was reeling with the information and trying to piece it together in his head. The worst of it was, all he could think about was keeping Malfoy out of it.

"We must kill Salazar before this goes too far," Godric said, shifting to the edge of the couch and leaning forward as this was incredibly secret information, even if it was completely obvious. "Anyone he has raised will return to the earth and their place beyond the veil. But it will be difficult with those who have pledged loyalty to him. Anyone who bears his mark will be compelled to do whatever it is he wishes of them, whether they want to do it or not. It will be a war unlike any you've seen."

"I doubt that," Ginny murmured, her fingers coiling into fists so tight her knuckles were white.

But Harry wasn't thinking about war. He wasn't thinking about Salazar Slytherin back from the dead or any of what Godric had just said – except for the last bit. _Anyone who bears his mark will be compelled to do whatever it is he wishes of them, whether they wanted to do it or not. _

Malfoy was in trouble.

"I've got to go," Harry said, standing up quickly, taking his wand from his sleeve.

Three pairs of curious eyes were on him.

"Uh, you know, rally the troops? I'll go to the office and warn the Aurors and see how much of the Order I can round up," he said. "Better sooner than later, before we're overrun with new and dead Death Eaters running about."

"A wise decision," Godric said and Harry couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at him. "I will also bring together my allies."

Harry nodded and apparated away before he could wonder what allies Godric Gryffindor could possibly have in the twenty-first century.


	9. Chapter 9: Seat of the Founders

The dark tomb was filled with warm light and the hum of spirits. It no longer looked like a burial chamber, but rather a great circular hall. At the center, the dais and broken columns had been repaired. The great, colored pillars that lined the edges glowed faintly, thrumming with concentrated magic. The jewels inlaid upon the top of the sealed coffins gleamed brightly as they channeled ancient magic into the preserved bodies resting beneath their lids.

"Do you not find it strange that while we exist in these forms, our true bodies lay in coffins?" Helga asked, sitting at the dais where a round table had been conjured. Weapons were laid upon the table: swords, bows, maces, daggers, cudgels, battle-axes and hammers, and several wands. She was flipping through an old book that had been hidden within the lid of Godric's coffin; one that only he had known was there.

"I find any manner of resurrection dark and repelling," Rowena sighed, pacing along the edge of the dais. She had pulled her waist-length hair into a long braid that was coiled at the nape of her neck. Her blue cloak swirled around her continuously moving legs and she twirled her wand in her fingers. She wore a deep indigo dress that was patterned with gold embroidery and along her forearm, a leather and bronze bracer. Beneath her dress, she wore leather pants that were well tooled. The cool feel of the stiletto dagger she had tucked in her boot was comforting in this environment. She hated that their basis of operation was beneath ground.

"You find everything dark and repelling," said a familiar voice from the entrance of the large hall. Helga leapt from her seat in anticipation, but Rowena merely gazed at Godric from her spot on the dais. She sighed at his approach. She may not have rushed to his side as Helga had, but she was relieved to see him.

"I had no luck in tracking down the boy," Rowena said, folding her arms over her chest. "I was led to a building protected by magic. He wasn't in it."

"Ah, Rowena," Godric smiled at her, his eyes bright in the candlelight. "Once again, I succeed where you have failed. I found the boy and spoke with him."

"Was he the one who raised Salazar?" Helga asked, raking her fingers through her thick, red hair.

"I don't believe so," said Godric, taking a seat in one of the high-backed chairs that had been conjured around the table. He withdrew his sword from the scabbard hidden within his strange coat. Godric had always been so fond of muggle clothes. It seemed unsurprising that he would immediately take to modern fashions. "There was no trace of Salazar anywhere on him, and his company seemed thoroughly enraged by the news of his resurrection. He was keeping secrets, though. He knew Salazar had been raised."

"We can't trust him, then," Rowena said, lacing her fingers together in front of her, a habit she had developed when thinking deeply. "So soon after Salazar has escaped and he knows of it? Deeply suspicious. How did he react when you told him he had to kill Salazar? That only his blood can send Salazar beyond the veil?"

"I didn't have a chance," said Godric idly, running a finger along the length of his sword, testing its sharpness. "He seemed like a good boy. I will explain the next time we meet."

"Godric!" Rowena snarled, striding forward and grabbing Godric's forearm. "This is _not a game_. It was always cat and mouse between you and Salazar! There are many more lives at risk now. The population has grown much larger. More than the last will die."

Godric's face turned vicious, his handsome features contorting. With his long golden hair, he looked like a great, roaring lion. "I know that better than anyone. I was the one who killed him! I was the one who created this place, these spells, so that he wouldn't hurt anyone again! I was the one left alone to do it! _I was the last_."

Rowena shrunk away from Godric's fierce anger, feeling as though he were physically forcing her away from him. He had already gained much magic from the spells that pulled it from the earth and into his body. The candlelight flickered as he seethed. Helga put a gentle hand on Godric's arm.

"We know, Godric," she said serenely, in a soothing voice that Rowena had never been able to master. While Helga was kind and friendly, Rowena had always been harsh and sharp. She so much wanted to feel Helga's warmth directed at her. Seeing her with Godric inflamed an old jealousy that had sat bitterly between the two for centuries. "We understand the sacrifice. That is why it is important to stop this before it goes further."

"So that we may return beyond the veil," Rowena whispered, turning from the pair. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine what death had been like. It had been warm and happy, but the longer they stayed on the other side the more it slipped away. She could barely remember anything about it now and part of her ached for it. "This life is not for us."

"Or for him," Godric said quietly, his anger tempered by Helga. "Or for those he calls from beyond the veil. They are evil people, these Death Eaters. They already have a thirst for what he preaches."

"Just as those of the Stygian Circle had," said Rowena, her mind swirling with memories long past. Memories of Salazar trying to persuade her to join his mad venture in purifying the earth, as he had called it. Memories of what Salazar had done when she had refused. She shuddered. She straightened and turned back to Godric. "Was this boy a descendant of Salazar?"

Godric shook his head. "No. I believe he is mine."

Rowena bit her lip in thought. "Then Salazar is not whole. The blood is not of his direct descendant. It will make him weaker."

"Hidden behind a legion of dark wizards, I doubt that will matter," said Helga. She caught Rowena's eyes and she frowned, her lips tightening into a thin line. She turned and went back to her book.

"And still stronger than us. We don't have the blood of our descendants to strengthen our magicks," said Godric, looking in the direction of the platform with his insignia, though Rowena doubted he was staring at any one thing in particular. Godric had a habit of often staring out into the middle-distance at nothing in particular while he was thinking. "But we are still stronger than most wizards and witches these days, it seems. Our magic is ancient and comes from the earth. Their magic comes from within themselves."

"That does not make them weaker," said Rowena, thinking of the men and women she had seen on her search for the boy. "It only makes them different than we are. Thinking of their magic as weak is as Salazar thinking that muggles are worthless merely because they do not have any. If we stoop to his thinking, we will most assuredly lose."

"Oh, bless the spirits," Helga suddenly exclaimed, her hand flying to cover her mouth in surprise. She stood up then, and shut the book tightly. "Do you not think it odd that Salazar has been able to raise others in such a short time, when it took all of your magic to raise us, Godric?"

"As I said, he has the blood of that boy and he is, in part, Salazar's descendant as well as mine," Godric said slowly. "That has made him stronger…"

"Strong enough though? What if he has the –"

"Impossible," Godric said suddenly, slamming his fist on the table. Rowena took a sharp breath. Of course, why hadn't she thought of it before?

"Why? Because you hid it so well?" she hissed, pulling herself up. "I told you to burn it. An object of unspeakable evil. You hid it instead. It's been centuries and it could be _anywhere _now. He could have it as we speak. If he has it, he could raise hundreds – _thousands _– of spirits. He would create an army the devil himself would not stand a chance against."

"Impossible," Godric said again, but his voice this time waved.

"Yes, but it could also permanently send Salazar beyond the veil," said Helga, coming to stand between Godric and Rowena, as she had thousands of times before. Always the mediator. "We need only find it and we wouldn't even need the boy's help. Then we could rest eternal without worry."


	10. Chapter 10: Unearthing

The house was empty and quiet, but there were still sounds that lurked on the edge of hearing. Draco felt very much as though he was sitting in the middle of something bigger than he was, something filled with ghosts of the past he couldn't quite grasp. He felt entombed by his fear and the house was merely a manifestation of that. When it had begun to feel like too much, that he was grasping at his chest as he struggled for steady breath, he had fled from the dusty place and into the back garden.

It was overrun with weeds and thick, tangled brown vines that seemed to be choking the life out of anything beautiful. There were blue and yellow flowers that grew alongside the house, but their petals were turning black and their stems a deep brown. A bench sat in the middle of the earthy chaos, and it was not spared from the vines or the dead leaves that appeared to cover everything. But the air was fresh, if not heavy with the smell of moist dirt, and the sky was open and blue above him.

Sitting on the bench, his mind whirled with unsteady, dark thoughts that shifted away as quickly as they came. His father's face, filled with hatred for his own son; his dead Aunt and her inhuman strength; the woman standing in the street of Grimmauld Place; the thought of Salazar Slytherin calling his allegiance, making the mark on his forearm burn.

Draco abruptly straightened. That last thought seemed wrong somehow, not like the others. His forearm did burn, but it was a dull ache he'd gotten used to. He'd never felt as though he were being called by it, though. It had always been the mark of his imprisonment, whether in his own mind or by society or by Voldemort. It had burned when Voldemort had called his Death Eaters together, but he never felt as though it were literally pulling him away from anything.

Now the burning in his forearm felt as though it were tearing him in two. Part of him knew he had to stay at Grimmauld Place where he was protected and safe, but the other part felt as though the place was suffocating him and the only freedom he could have was if he followed where the mark called. To Slytherin.

Dark fear gripped him then and Draco ran his bitten nails along the rough, raised skin of the mark. It was like a scab that wouldn't heal or tear away, no matter how he picked at it and tried to get rid of it. Blood was bubbling around the edges where his fingers had torn the unmarked skin and he had to forcibly grip his knee to keep his hand from doing further damage.

A door slammed within the house that made him jump. His heart leapt into his throat and even when the back garden door opened, he expected his father or his aunt, or hell, Salazar Slytherin himself. But it was only Potter, who looked a little like Draco felt, pale and shaken by something.

"Good," Potter breathed, color rushing to his cheeks. He walked over to the bench, his feet kicking vines and rocks out of the way. "I thought you'd left."

Draco was surprised at how relieved Potter sounded. Relieved that he hadn't left, though Draco couldn't think of why Potter would think he would. Even with the pulling at his mind and the dark thoughts that were swelling in him, he couldn't leave Grimmauld Place. He wouldn't. He clung desperately to it because it was Potter's and Potter was safe.

"Why would I leave?" he asked carefully, watching as Potter took a seat beside him on the bench, clearing away leaves and tearing at a few dead vines. "That would be suicide."

Potter cleared his throat, looking as though he wanted to say something but was holding it back for whatever reason. "No reason. How are you feeling?"

Draco eyed Potter. He was hiding something. But wasn't he always? It wasn't as though he and Potter had ever been open with one another, but seeing him as often as Draco had, he had picked up on things that went unsaid. Potter's life was riddled with secrets that he was keeping from everyone, secrets that he was probably keeping from himself. Secrets like why he had helped Draco; why he had sometimes stayed several nights at the dingy apartment when he had his own, well cared for flat; why he maintained a job he didn't like and why he was dating a girl he didn't love.

"Wonderful," Draco drawled, turning his voice into the physical mask he couldn't quite conjure up, but there was a brittle edge to it. "I just wouldn't know what to do with myself if I _weren't _being chased by mad-men who wanted me dead."

Potter snorted. "Welcome to my life."

There was a moment of tense silence between them. Draco focused his gaze on a patch of weedy flowers that despite their nature looked rather beautiful. He felt compelled to look at Potter, but resisted the temptation. There was something warm and safe that fluttered in his stomach every time he did, but Potter would probably get a bit weird if Draco stared at him all of the time, just so that he didn't feel like he was going out of his mind. Finally, he asked, "Why are you helping me?"

It was a question that had gone unspoken for a year. Draco had never asked and Potter had never explained. But things hadn't been so harried then. He'd been running from Aurors who weren't a danger to Potter, only an obstacle. If Potter had been found harboring Draco, he probably would've gotten a slap on the wrist and maybe lost his job – the one he didn't care for anyway. But now there was a very real chance that one of them – or both of them – could die. It seemed a very stupid idea to Draco to help him out at all. If it had been reversed, Draco probably would've run for the high hills and stayed as far away from Potter as possible.

Something twisted in his stomach at the thought, but he forced it down.

"Because you don't deserve to die or be imprisoned," Potter said after a moment of quiet contemplation. Well, Draco thought, of course not. He didn't believe he deserved any of those things. Thus the whole on-the-run thing. Part of him still felt guilty, though. He _had _done terrible things, even if he'd had the best intentions. He probably _did _deserve to be imprisoned in Azkaban. "I mean you're a good person. You're not like the Lestranges or… or your father. You didn't become a Death Eater because you wanted to kill people."

A warm heat had traveled up the back of Draco's neck and into his cheeks. He felt a bit odd – he almost wanted to hug Potter for saying that. Having someone – anyone – see good in Draco where no else had felt foreign but welcome. Still, he smothered the feeling down. Potter was naïve and stupid. He gave a bitter laugh. "How do you know? Maybe I enjoy wearing the entrails of my enemies as a hat."

Draco could feel Potter's glare without having to look at him. His bitterness withered.

"You would probably pass out if you had entrails on your head," Potter said. "Ruining your pretty hair."

"It's true," Draco nodded solemnly, feeling a bit lighter. "Entrails would take forever to get out and I don't look very good in red."

Potter laughed and his shoulder bumped Draco's. He was warm beneath his navy blue cotton t-shirt, where Draco's skin was like ice. For the first time, Draco realized he'd been partially in shock. Almost immediately, spreading from the spot where Potter had touched him, he felt a bit warmer.

"I appreciate it," said Draco finally. "I mean you're help. But I don't see why you would _want _to."

Potter shrugged. "Someone has to."

Draco felt as though the heat had dropped right out of him and his limbs were suddenly stiff with ice. "Right, of course," Draco drawled, his voice cold and hard. "Someone has to help poor Malfoy, who can't do anything on his own. Why not add it to your long list of accomplishments? Defeat Voldemort, catch Death Eaters, turn Malfoy into a good little drudge."

Draco compelled himself upward, though he hardly felt capable of standing. He moved a bit like a robot; stiff and jerky but moving quickly toward the door to the house. Anything to get away from Potter, who probably thought of Draco as nothing more than a bit of altruism. Well, what had he expected, really?

"Draco," Potter said suddenly and Draco realized he was directly behind him. The name sounded foreign in Draco's ears. Potter had never said it, not unless it was laced with enough venom to kill a snake. There was a hot hand suddenly gripping Draco's forearm and the Dark Mark flared with heat. Potter ripped his hand away, looking scalded. "Was that –"

Draco merely gave him a jerky nod and a grim, twisted smile. "Speaking of, why don't you ride off on your charity horse and get those potions ingredients? Then you can be rid of me and put another gold star on your resume."

Draco stalked off, throwing open the back door and stomping through the hall, already halfway up the stairs by the time Potter was shutting the door behind him. He could hear Potter calling his name, but he was firmly ignoring him.

"Draco, that's not –"

But Draco had already slammed shut the door to his room.


	11. Chapter 11: United We'll Reign

It was late evening and Harry could hear Malfoy still flouncing around his upstairs bedroom, slamming doors and pacing. Each time there was a particularly loud thud he rolled his eyes and returned to his tea. There had been several times where he'd ventured towards the stairs, but something made him stop and turn around and he'd found himself back in the kitchen, staring into his mug. There was another slam and Harry shook his head. There was only one door to Malfoy's bedroom; Harry couldn't think what doors he could possibly have found to slam.

But Harry did feel terrible about what he'd said. There had been something awkward about his and Malfoy's discussion in the garden. It had been like Harry had intentionally ruined it, without really thinking about it. He had known better than to say what he had, but he'd gone and done it anyway.

And he hadn't meant it. He just hadn't wanted to admit to himself the real reason he was helping Malfoy, which wasn't for any real charitable reason. Yes, he did think _someone _had to do it, but he would have felt unspeakably uncomfortable if it had been anyone _other_ than him. He was almost jealous or predatory about it. Malfoy was _his _responsibility.

The idea that Malfoy was _his _anything made Harry's stomach seize and twist uncomfortably. He knew _why _he felt like he did, but he was struggling to ignore it as best as he could.

At first Harry didn't hear the knock at the front door. Malfoy was still being quite loud upstairs and Harry was lost in his thoughts. Then, just as his mind was registering that he'd heard _something, _Hermione and Ron burst through the kitchen door. Harry nearly knocked over his chair in his haste to stand up and his gaze immediately shot upward, as though he could see through the ceiling to Malfoy.

"Harry James Potter! What the hell were you thinking?" Hermione yelled and Harry found himself being compelled backwards. Even if Hermione was his best friend, her anger could make the very brave of men quail. "Poor Ginny is having heart failure!"

Harry gaped open-mouthed, struggling for something – _anything – _to say that would get him out of this mess and hopefully steer Hermione and Ron out of the house before they could discover his very own harbored fugitive. Unfortunately, words did not seem to be his strong suit at that point.

"Godric Gryffindor, though. That's pretty awesome." That was Ron, who always had remarkably useful contributions to serious conversations.

"_Ron_," Hermione hissed. "What were you thinking, taking off like that? Ginny said you'd gone to warn people about _Salazar bloody Slytherin, _but funny, we haven't seen you all day. In fact, _no one has_. Ginny thought you'd run off to face Slytherin by yourself or something and had gotten yourself killed."

"I wouldn't do that," Harry managed to speak, though his voice sounded meek in his ears. "I wouldn't just run off to face one of the darkest wizards in history by myself."

"Yes, you would," Ron said as though this was actually helping Harry's case, but he looked terribly amused by the situation. Probably because Hermione's rage was not, for once, focused on him. "That's exactly what you would do. Single handedly save the day and all that. You're kind of an idiot that way."

"_Thanks_, Ron," Harry grumbled at his best friend. Gee, with friends like these, who needed Salazar Slytherins or flouncy Malfoys? "Look, there was just something I needed to do. I was coming back."

"Something you needed to do, someone you need to see, somewhere you have to be. There are never any specifics with you anymore," said Hermione, looking less furious now that she was sure Harry was safe and not stupidly risking his life, although Harry was pretty sure he still was in some ways. "You're keeping secrets. Loads of them. Anyone who knows you can tell."

As if on cue, Malfoy decided to hurtle something across the room. What the hell was he doing up there, anyway? Harry paled as both Hermione and Ron's gaze shot upward. _Shut up, Malfoy. Shut up, shut up, shut up. _

"Who's here with you?" Hermione asked, peering out the kitchen door and up the stairs as though that might offer some helpful hint.

"No one," Harry said at once, far too quickly. He swallowed thickly, trying to think of an excuse, but nothing sensible was coming to him. Finally he said, "There's gnomes."

"Gnomes?" Ron raised an eyebrow. "_Garden _gnomes?"

"Yes," said Harry with a nod. "They got into the house."

Something heavy hit the floor above them.

"That sounded awfully big for garden gnomes," said Hermione, and suddenly she was traipsing through the hall and toward the stairs. Harry swore under his breath and quickly darted past Ron and grabbed Hermione's forearm.

"You probably don't want to go up there. They're overfed and large and angry. I'm pretty sure there was spinach or something in the garden, because they're much larger and more dangerous than regular gnomes," he scrambled for something to keep Hermione from going up those stairs.

"Harry, that's ridiculous," Hermione was looking at him as though he had grown another head. If he had, he might have had a better excuse to keep her from going upstairs. "Gnomes only come in one size and they're hardly dangerous."

"I'm an angry, large, overfed gnome to you now?" Malfoy's voice drifted down the stairs and Harry looked up to see him standing on the landing with his arms folded across his chest. Harry felt as though his entire world was spinning away from him and he nearly sank to the floor. Part of him wanted to dash up the stairs and apologize to Malfoy for anything he'd ever said that was horrible to him, and the other part wanted to dash up the stairs and pummel Malfoy _in the face_.

"What is _he _doing here?" this time it was Ron's turn to be angry, and his face was turning a bit red at the edges. "I was pretty certain this was a Death Eater-free zone."

"Look, it's not what you think –"

"Yeah, I'm quite sure it's exactly what he thinks," Malfoy sneered from the landing.

"_Shut up, Malfoy_," Harry and Ron both snapped in unison. Malfoy snorted and shrugged, disappearing back down the hall towards his room as though he'd accomplished whatever it was he'd come out of his room to do. Harry was certain that it was merely to make his life difficult. Malfoy had probably heard Hermione and Ron and had decided to make Harry miserable by revealing himself.

How did he get into these messes?

"Harry! What is going _on _with you?" asked Hermione, looking less angry and more concerned than Ron. Somehow that was worse. "Please tell me you just caught him and are holding him until the authorities arrive?"

Harry bit his lip. "Well, you _could _put it that way…"

"What do you mean _could_?"

"_Just _caught him might be a _bit _inaccurate," he said slowly, thinking that maybe if he drew it out longer, Hermione and Ron wouldn't disown him as a friend when they found out. Judging by the looks on their faces, his plan wasn't working, so he decided it was probably best to just _explain._ It seemed a lot harder than it should have been. After all, he was _sure _he was doing the right thing, so why did it seem wrong now? He still trusted that Malfoy wasn't an evil Death Eater who wanted to spill the guts of innocent muggles. "I've… sort of been… uh, hiding him for about a year…"

Hermione looked like she was going to faint and Harry was afraid Ron was going to break Harry's nose with the way his fists were clenched at his sides and his arms were trembling. But he knew that neither would do that. Hermione was sensible and Ron was his best friend. They wouldn't hate him because of this. Or at least, he hoped.

"A year?" Hermione spoke slowly and it was clear her mind was going a mile a minute, the way her mind often worked. "That explains a lot, but I certainly don't –"

"_Malfoy_, Harry? You do remember _who _Malfoy is, don't you?" Ron asked, his voice shaking slightly. "We hate him, remember? He was a git in school, he called Hermione horrible names, never mind what he said about my family _and _yours. He's a bloody Death Eater! He practically killed Dumbledore! You hate him for all that, remember?"

Harry's voice caught in his throat a moment. But then, hot anger washed over him and he stiffened his spine. He was nearly as tall as Ron these days, but his best friend still held an inch or so over him. "No. I don't hate him. I haven't for a long time. He _didn't _kill Dumbledore and he's a perfectly decent person if you get past the arrogance and purity crap, which he doesn't believe in anymore anyway. He's gone through just as much as we have, if not _more, _and he doesn't deserve to be put in Azkaban. Period."

Hermione had gone sheet white and Ron's face turned a deeper shade of red, which Harry hadn't even thought was possible. Just when Harry was sure Ron was going to pop a blood vesse, Ron swung around on his heel and stalked down the hall, slamming the front door shut on his way out. The nailed down curtains of Mrs. Black's portrait trembled with the force and for a brief moment, her angry curses could be heard wailing behind the thick swaths of black fabric, only faintly muffled. When her shrieks died down, Harry found himself standing quietly with his fists at his sides, silently seething.

"Harry," said Hermione gently, putting her hand on his upper arm as though that would calm him down. For what it was worth, the gesture _did _dim the white hot spots that speckled his vision. He took a deep breath and his shoulders sagged. Despite having dreaded this moment for so long, when he knew Ron and Hermione would find out about Malfoy, he felt inexplicably relieved regardless of Ron's overreaction. "Please talk to me. Tell me everything."

So he did. They retreated back into the kitchen where Hermione made a fresh pot of tea as Harry explained everything. It started off with how he'd found Malfoy a year ago and then spiraled into everything he knew about Malfoy now. He even let the details of why he'd spent several nights a month in the apartment with Malfoy wash over him and he began to realize several things about himself, though he didn't say anything about them aloud. Aside from that, the only part he left out was the news that Gryffindor had dropped on him about Slytherin's own Dark Mark. Even thinking about it made his stomach twist and it didn't seem right to explain it to Hermione and hide it from Malfoy.

Finally thoughtful silence settled between them. Hermione had listened without interjecting her own thoughts, absorbing his story without bias. It was hard to remember why Harry had been so afraid to tell any of this to her before; she neither seemed angry or upset, only thoughtful. After a while of sipping tea, she finally spoke her thoughts.

"I understand why you did it," she said slowly, as though choosing her words exceedingly carefully. Harry realized then that it _was _affecting her much more than she was letting on. Of course it would. It wasn't as though he'd been harboring some random, insignificant Death Eater. It was Draco Malfoy, who had tortured Hermione during school about her parentage and about her looks. He had said terrible things about the Weasleys.

But it wasn't as though Harry had forgotten any of those things; it was simply that _that _Malfoy didn't exist anymore. They weren't bickering children anymore. There were no rivalries to uphold. Malfoy's ideals had been shattered at the end of the war. Even if he would probably never say it aloud, Malfoy didn't think of muggles or muggleborns as something disgusting. Harry had seen that just by watching Malfoy live in squalor and in the muggle-owned apartment. He _had _been disgusted by the state of the apartment, but he'd never, not once, said anything about muggles.

"But I think what's upsetting Ron is that you've been hiding him away for a _year_. And you never once told us," Hermione's voice shook a little then. "We would've helped. We've been so worried about you all this time, always disappearing places and never explaining anything to anyone. You've been distant. We thought – well, we thought terrible things. And we were afraid for you."

Harry's heart was like lead and his stomach was laden with heavy guilt. She was right, of course. He had always been afraid of how _angry _they'd be and hadn't taken into account how worried they _were_.

"You're right," he managed to croak out. "I've been a horrible friend. I'm so sorry."

Suddenly Hermione burst into tears and she all but flung herself out of her chair. She had her arms wrapped around his neck in a blink and was sobbing into his shoulder. "Oh, _Harry_," was all she said and she stayed like that for a while, crying and hugging. Finally she extricated her limbs from his neck and wiped at her damp cheeks, struggling to compose herself. "Don't _ever _do that to us again."

Harry smiled meekly up at her. "I promise."

"Good," Hermione took a deep breath and then she smiled. "I'll try and explain to Ron. He's been just as worried, if not more, and you know how well Ron and emotions mix. It's like baking soda and vinegar."

Harry laughed and stood up, stretching his arms and legs, feeling as though he'd been sitting for hours. When he glanced at the clock, he realized he _had _been sitting for hours. It was nearly midnight and for the first time, Harry could feel the onslaught of weariness.

Hermione gave him a quick hug and said goodbye, leaving out the front door in a hurry, probably to make sure Ron hadn't ended up destroying something in their new house. Harry felt a brief spark of hope in his chest that maybe everything _would _be okay. Suddenly the threat of Slytherin didn't seem so daunting when he had Hermione on his side and, hopefully, Ron.

After a few minutes while he was setting away the tea tray and rinsing out the cups, Harry realized that Malfoy had been unusually quiet. Not that this was a bad thing, since Harry could only imagine what his room looked like at this point, but it was curious. Setting aside the cups to dry, Harry quickly made his way out of the kitchen and climbed up the stairs. Then, he realized with a start, that he had no idea which room Malfoy had decided to use.

It took him a few minutes to find it, throwing open doors and unlocking them with a quick spell. In fact, when he did come to Malfoy's room, he realized he had only needed to find the one door that was unlocked. When the thick door swung open, he realized with a start the reason for Malfoy's ridiculous noise.

Apparently Malfoy had spent the whole day summoning and conjuring things. The room looked nothing like the others in the dingy house. There was a dark, polished desk pushed into the corner that was laden with papers and books. A book lamp sat to one side, with a green shade that glowed dimly and bathed the corner in emerald light. The bed was made with the burgundy and gold bedspread that were tucked into the armoires of every room, but the head of the bed was filled with plush pillows that Harry was pretty sure hadn't come from Grimmauld Place.

The lacquered wood floor was covered with thick, green and gray rugs that looked like they had been plucked off the floor of Malfoy Manor, which Harry had only seen once. Actually, now that he took a closer look and thought about it, he was pretty sure they _were _the rugs from Malfoy Manor. The lace curtains billowed slightly in a breeze that drifted in from the open window that made the room smell fresher than any other room in the house.

At first Harry thought Malfoy wasn't in the room at all. The dim light threw everything into shadows and made it difficult to see, but not impossible, and he'd almost turned around to look for Malfoy elsewhere when he caught sight of the huddled form on one side of the bed.

Malfoy was curled up, his head resting against the solid oak nightstand, with a thin, woven blanket wrapped around his lithe form. He had wedged himself in between the night stand, the bed and the corner of the desk, and Harry couldn't help but think it was rather odd, considering it was clear Malfoy had spent the entire day making the room comfortable and yet had chosen the one spot in the room that was most uncomfortable to sit.

"Malfoy?" he said quietly, and Malfoy stirred suddenly, his head jerking. Harry realized Malfoy had been sleeping, or at least drifting off to sleep. The green light made his skin unearthly pale and the shadows beneath his eyes stand out like spilled ink on white parchment. When Malfoy didn't move or respond, Harry moved over to the side of the bed and flicked on the light that was sitting above his head on the nightstand.

Malfoy winced against the sudden wash of bright light and he pulled the blanket up closer to his chin. He reminded Harry of a small boy who might have been frightened by the dark, only precisely the opposite. Malfoy was frightened by the light in his weary, sleep-addled state. That was when Harry saw the bloodied rags piled up beside him, half hidden by his body and the blanket.

"What –" Harry began to say, but he knew before he'd even dropped to his knees in front of Malfoy. He immediately reached for the blanket and jerked it out of Malfoy's pale, trembling fingers. Beneath the blanket, Malfoy was still wearing his white thermal from earlier, only now the sleeves were stained dark red and the edges were thick with dried blood. There were bits of flesh hanging from his arm where he'd tried to use his wand to peel the black, inky mark off his skin. "_Malfoy_."

Malfoy blinked at him, as though lost in the fog of his own mind. Harry pulled his own wand from the leather band tucked beneath his sleeve and set about healing the lacerations that were still oozing blood and clear fluid. He gritted his teeth, every now and then gazing up at Malfoy. Malfoy merely held his arm out obediently, looking away toward the desk but not focusing on anything.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Harry asked, though his voice was not unkind. It was best to be gentle with Malfoy when he was in this sort of state. If he were too rough or too loud or too harsh, Malfoy would break apart like fragile porcelain and only the darkness and the fear would be left. He'd lash out and hurt himself even more than he'd already had, and drag Harry down into that depthless darkness with him.

"It's funny," Malfoy said, his voice hollow and cold, making the word 'funny' sound like something wicked and guttural. "This mark is different."

Harry's chest tightened in fear. "How?"

"I feel like I'm splitting in two," Malfoy was looking at him now and his gaze was so dark, so _sad_, that Harry felt like _he _were splitting apart. "Part of me wants to stay here where it's safe. The other part feels like this place is suffocating me."

At the word suffocating, Harry's eyes drifted to the exposed bit of Malfoy's throat. There was something raised and red near the edges of the collar of his shirt. Immediately Harry reached forward and, like the blanket, yanked the collar back, revealing the thick scratches where Malfoy's nails had dug into his skin. Harry let out a tight breath. "_Malfoy_."

"Why do you bother?" asked Malfoy, staring hard at Harry. "I'm a mess. I'll always be a mess. I might as well be a mess somewhere where I won't ruin your life as well as mine. I _should _be in Azkaban, you know."

Harry's fingers tightened into a fist around the cloth of Malfoy's shirt. "Don't say that. Don't _ever _say that."

"But it's the truth," the look on Malfoy's face was pitiable. He believed it _was _the truth and it made him seem as though he were eleven years old again. His face was unlined and sad.

"It's _not_," Harry hissed angrily, shoving the point of his wand against Malfoy's collar a little harder than he'd meant. The spell for healing was a harsh whisper under his breath, as though it were a curse meant to harm rather than heal. "It's _not _the truth. You deserve to be safe. You don't belong in Azkaban; you belong here. You belong here with me."

Malfoy sucked in his breath as though he'd been hit and Harry's hands wavered. Harry withdrew his wand, though the marks weren't completely healed yet, and he released his hold on Malfoy's shirt, afraid he'd hurt him.

"I promise I'll fix this. I'll kill Slytherin if I have to, like I killed Voldemort," Harry said and Malfoy's gaze shot away, his eyes widening as though he were afraid Voldemort would rise up out of the shadows just by Harry speaking his name. "We'll get rid of the mark and you'll be safe. I promise."

Malfoy swallowed thickly and gave a hesitant nod. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Malfoy would be all right for now. Harry knew that by tomorrow morning, Malfoy would be his usual, arrogant self. Hopefully it would last long enough for them to do something about the trouble they were in, but even if it didn't, Harry would be there to put the pieces back together and that was something.


	12. Chapter 12: The Little Things

The warm, rosy glow of the early morning sun bathed him in a swath of sultry light. Draco thought, briefly, to get up and get dressed and shower as he usually did, but he was comfortable for the first time in what felt like ages. A crowbar couldn't pry him from his spot, snuggled beneath the warm blanket and his head buried in soft, downy pillows. His blond hair fell in his face, but he didn't bother to move it.

And then the dull ache began in his fingertips and slowly began to travel up his arm. He let out a muffled groan into the pillow his head was currently resting on. He wiggled a bit, stretching his shoulder and shaking out his wrist, but no amount of movement could relieve him of the throbbing pain. He gritted his teeth and let out a sound that was quite close to a snarl. He cursed Voldemort and Slytherin and the Dark Mark.

Draco pushed himself out of bed, disentangling his legs from the warm blankets and sheets. His shirt and pants from the previous day lay in a heap on the floor, but he didn't do much else than kick them to the side and make for the armoire, where he'd placed all his conjured clothes. Normally Draco wouldn't have let even a pair of pants sit idly on the floor, but he was feeling particularly chaotic today and didn't mind the discarded clothes or the rumpled linens.

He pulled out a grey long-sleeved t-shirt despite the uncharacteristic London heat, along with a pair of pressed black trousers, and bundled them up in his arms. He cautiously poked his head out of the door to his room, half-expecting to hear or see a Weasley. But the only sound was a clattering in the kitchen that reminded him of the house-elves at the Malfoy Manor making breakfast. As he made his way to the bathroom, he realized it was probably Harry, who was actually quite good at making breakfast with very little to work with. He'd once made devilled eggs and ham with nothing more than a microwave and a bit of wand-work.

The bathroom had been scrubbed, which was a relief to Draco, who had a thing about clean toilets. The air was hot and moist and there were fresh towels laid out on the marble counter top for him. Sometimes Draco wondered if Harry hadn't been the Boy Who Lived, he'd be someone's housewife. Giving a low chuckle at the thought, he quickly shed his clothes and stepped into the shower, which despite all appearances produced clear, hot water.

Once he was finished his glorious shower, he toweled himself off and put on his clothes. He avoided his reflection in the fogged mirror, but he couldn't help catching sight of himself. His damp hair was longer than he liked, since haircuts weren't exactly high on his list of priorities. It hung in his eyes and curled around his ears. He pushed it off his forehead and he grimaced. There were shadows under his eyes that no amount of sleep could get rid of and his skin was pasty. A real tan would never actually look good on him, but he could use _some _color. Maybe he'd spend more time in the garden, now that there actually was one.

His stomach wrenched at the thought of the garden, of his conversation with Harry and of the previous night. And then, he realized with a start, he'd started thinking of Harry as _Harry, _not Potter. It wasn't as weird as he'd thought it'd be and it actually felt a little better to call Harry by his first name, at least in his mind. He didn't hate Harry in any form anymore, and they were far beyond acquaintances at this point. There was no reason for him to refer to the other man as Potter.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Draco shook his head so that his hair became a messy halo of white-blond hair. Now _that _looked ridiculous. He pushed it behind his ears where it curled restively, as though to spite him.

When Draco entered the kitchen, Harry was in the process of cleaning up his cooking mess. The table was set with dishes and there were bowls of eggs and ripe fruit and plates filled with bacon and ham and toast. Fresh orange juice was set-aside in a clear, glass jug and the warm smell of coffee filled the kitchen. It was the first time in nearly a year that Draco's breakfast didn't consist of instant coffee and the occasional stale bagel. His stomach instantly reminded him that he hadn't had anything to eat the previous day, though at the time he'd been too upset to think about food.

"Feeling better?" Harry asked, drying his hands off on a dishtowel that he had dug up from God knew where. Draco immediately tensed, his back stiffening. It was amazing how a simple question could set him on edge in a split second. He had to remind himself that this was okay, that he wasn't doing something stupid and that he could trust Harry.

"Yes," he murmured, taking a seat at the table. The admission brought a certain amount of embarrassment with it. It wasn't as though it were the first time Harry had seen him weak and helpless and it wasn't the first time Harry had sat in front of him, healing whatever damage Draco had caused to himself – with magic or with words. But each time, he felt as though he'd unwittingly peeled away a layer of himself that was meant to keep him safe. "You realize there are only two of us. You've made enough food to feed a small army."

Harry shrugged and sat with a thump in his chair, promptly scooping half the bowl onto his plate. Draco stared. It was incredibly frustrating that Draco had to watch what he ate meticulously while Harry just dumped whatever he wanted into his gullet. He gave Harry a single contemptuous glare before taking the bowl of eggs passed to him. But as hungry as he was, he couldn't keep himself from piling his plate nearly as full as Harry's.

"Technically," Harry spread marmalade on his toast. "We _are _a small army."

"We're not an army, we're a duo. A pair. A –" he had begun to say 'couple', but quickly cut himself off. "Two does not an army make."

Harry chuckled around a mouthful of eggs smothered in ketchup. Draco wrinkled his nose. "Hermione and Ron are coming over with Ginny. Luna is going to swing by later with Neville. See? Small army."

Draco's good mood withered almost instantaneously. "Fantastic. The whole _gang_."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You do _want _to defeat Slytherin, don't you?"

Draco always marveled at how Harry always assumed that because _he _wanted to do for the greater good that everyone else did too, no matter how much time he spent in Draco's company. Draco had no inclination for saving anyone else's neck but his own. Granted, it would be easier with Slytherin out of the way, but it was considerably less dangerous to simply get rid of the Dark Mark and be done with it. The rest Harry could do on his own.

"No thanks," Draco cut his ham into small pieces. "I'd rather remain breathing."

"_Malfoy_," Harry groaned, setting aside his fork and leaning on his elbow as he shifted to look at Draco properly. "This is _Salazar Slytherin_. We can't just let him walk around, killing as he pleases."

"No, _you _can't. I can," said Draco. He knew Harry hated this about him, hated the fact that Draco never felt compelled to help his fellow man. That wasn't entirely true, but Harry didn't need to know it. "Besides, from what I've seen, he seems more intent on bringing people back to life rather than maiming and slaughtering."

"People like Bellatrix?" Harry bit out and Draco visibly flinched. Of course he'd bring her into this. Draco had no hope of escaping this now. He was either in or out. He couldn't be both. Harry wouldn't let him.

"_Fine_," Draco snapped. "_We'll _take on Slytherin with the whole Gryffindor gang. Huzzah."

"Luna wasn't a Gryffindor," Harry pointed out around a mouthful of bacon. "She was a Ravenclaw."

"You'd think, then, she'd be smart enough to avoid the lot of you."

It was late morning and Draco was grimy from head to foot. He and Harry had spent the morning dusting out the library, which was where they planned on having their Anti-Slytherin powwow. They both had their shirts pulled up over their noses and their sleeves rolled up, though Draco had noticeably left his right down. Harry was flush from his perch on top of one of the bookshelves that Draco wasn't entirely sure was safe.

When there was a knock at the library door, Harry kicked the ladder away and dropped from the top of the bookshelf with a loud thud, landing smoothly on his feet. Draco snorted and rolled his eyes. Showoff. A pair of old brass goggles were visible around Harry's neck when he dropped his shirt from his mouth. Draco had tossed them at him during a particularly heated argument over who would win in a one-on-one; Alcide Herondale of the Chudley Cannons or Cara Kutter of the Ballycastle Bats. Harry had laughed and looped them over his head, briefly wearing them as he climbed along the edges of the bookshelves. They'd left black smudges around his eyes that had made him look completely ridiculous until Draco wiped them away with a damp rag. It had been so normal, so_ easy_, that Draco had nearly forgotten the dull ache in his forearm that was a constant reminder of why he was there in the first place.

Hermione and Ron came in, both wearing their work robes. Ron's were the pale blue of the standard Auror uniform for trainees with a badge slapped across the chest and left arm. They made his hair look vividly bright and his skin darker than it was. He looked none-too-pleased to be there at all, his arms folded over his chest and a scowl that seemed to be directed at Draco, no matter which corner of the room he moved to. Hermione, on the other hand, was smiling; her normally bushy hair pulled into a high ponytail and her robes the color of indigo silk. She had a white lace collar around her neck.

"A defense attorney?" Draco asked with a raised eyebrow. "Can't say I didn't see that one coming."

"Specifically for the Ethical Treatment of Magical Creatures," said Harry, looking proud to have Hermione as a friend. It was quite an achievement, Draco had to admit. Only three years out of Hogwarts and she was already quite accomplished – unlike Draco, who'd been running for his life and hadn't even paused to think about his education.

"I'm still a student," Hermione said, a crimson blush seeping into her cheeks. "Anyway, we brought _our friends_, as well."

Draco frowned. Harry had mentioned Ginny, but Ginny was certainly only one person.

Ginny came in shortly behind them, her arm entwined with another man's. She was laughing at something he'd said and there was a comely blush staining her cheeks. She wasn't professionally dressed, as Hermione and Ron were, but rather she was wearing a light yellow blouse and a pair of white tapered trousers. This hardly seemed battle uniform – or even a serious discussion uniform. She looked as though she were out on a date.

Some part of this made Draco furious, whether it was because she didn't seem to be taking the situation seriously or the look Harry was giving her. It was a mixture between confusion, hurt and, oddly, relief. He couldn't make it out, but he was pretty certain he didn't like it.

The man Ginny came in with had wispy golden brown hair and was wearing a long, beige trench coat. Because of the hot, mid-summer weather, Draco couldn't see that it had any practical use – at least, until the man took it off and revealed what he was wearing underneath. He seemed to be dressed head to toe in thick, rigid leather. He wore a brigandine that was tooled and embroidered with the crest of Gryffindor, the gold and red thread and leather paint making the lion on his chest seem alive. One shoulder was covered with a polished pauldron that seemed more decoration than actual protection. A single vambrace on his lower forearm had the same crest etched into the iron metal. Both metal pieces had gold edging and the appearance was very striking.

Without being told, Draco knew he was looking at Godric Gryffindor. He knew it was improbable, but if there was one thing Draco had been good at in school, aside from Potions, it had been History and the man in front of him was wearing full wizard battle gear from the 10th century. It was simply unlikely that it was anyone else.

Draco thought that that would be all of them, but then two young women came striding into the room. He nearly fell down in shock when he realized one of them was the woman who had been standing outside of Grimmauld Place. Though her long black hair was tied in a French braid that pulled the hair away from her face, the sharp features and pale skin were unmistakable. She surveyed the room with stormy grey eyes that seemed to take in everything. When her gaze landed on Draco, he felt as though she looking straight into his soul and he wanted to hide from her piercing stare.

The other woman, on the other hand, seemed her complete opposite. Auburn hair fell freely around her oval face, though several jeweled pins had been threaded through it. Her features were soft and kind, as was her expression. She looked almost happy to be there, whereas her companion looked downright miserable.

Both women wore long, silk gowns with colored cords tied around their waists. Various bobbles hung from the cords and as they moved closer, Draco could see that they were potions and herbs. Velvet capes with fur-lined hoods were draped over their shoulders and brass toggles looped together kept them fastened. They both wore the same sort of vambrance that Gryffindor wore, each bearing a different crest – one for Hufflepuff and the other for Ravenclaw.

"Draco," Hermione said stiffly, turning slightly to face the group as a whole. Draco found it odd that she'd said his first name, but then realized she was simply trying to be courteous. Draco probably wouldn't have shown her the same respect and it made him feel guilty, despite not having actually done anything. "Meet Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, and Rowena Ravenclaw."

Hermione held her breath as though she expected to be scolded and Draco watched in vague interest as Rowena nodded approvingly. Hermione let out her breath as discretely as possible and then moved closer to Ron, tucking her hand into his. She seemed suddenly very nervous about their current company and though Draco didn't rightly feel the same, he couldn't blame her. Being in the presence of the Founders of Hogwarts must have been overwhelming.

Draco had never, not once, wanted to be in any house other than Slytherin. He'd always been of Slytherin's ideals – muggles were filth and muggleborns were worse. Raised by his father and raised with these beliefs, it had been a devastating blow when Draco realized that his family had been wrong. But even still he felt no connection to these Founders; not like Harry and his merry band of Gryffindors did. It would have been different if he'd been face-to-face with Slytherin, but he was thankfully not.

Godric came forward then and extended his hand. He seemed awkward about it, as though it wasn't the way he was used to greeting people – and it probably wasn't, though Draco couldn't imagine what they had done a thousand years ago when they'd met new people. Danced in circles? Bowed, probably, but that didn't seem as fun as picturing Godric Gryffindor doing the electric slide every time he was introduced to someone new.

Draco shook his hand and he felt as though Godric was going to crush his fingers into bone dust. Pain was nothing new to him, though, so he threw up a mask and gritted his teeth. Worse, though, was the sharp fire that burned through his arm.

Suddenly Godric wrenched him forward, jerking his arm nearly out of its socket. His right hand reached forward and ripped back the fabric of Draco's shirt, exposing the black skin beneath. Draco sucked in his breath. He might as well have been stripped naked with the looks he was receiving from nearly all parties and he felt very much as though he had.

Harry shot forward then and grabbed Draco's wrist, prying his arm out of Gryffindor's hands. His skin was red where Godric had grabbed him and he had no doubt there would be a bruise later. Part of him wanted to shout and yell at the brutish man, but Godric's steely gaze kept him from saying anything at all. His voice was trapped in his clenched throat.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Harry snarled, so venomous and angry that he sounded as though someone had affronted _his _dignity, rather than Draco's. His hand still circled Draco's wrist firmly, though not nearly as bone-crushingly tight as Godric's had been. Draco thought to remove it but decided against it, standing numb and staring instead with wide-eyes.

"He's been marked," Rowena came forward, bringing herself up to her full height. She was quite tall for a woman and was easily able to look Harry directly in the eye. Her lips were pursed and her eyes were dark and angry and Draco suddenly had a vision of his own mother. It was disconcerting and he nearly ducked behind Harry. "He cannot be trusted."

"Not by his choice," Harry spat, not daunted by the terrifying woman. If Harry had any brains, Draco thought, he would've backed down.

"_No one _unwilling can be marked," Godric frowned and Draco was beginning to find the Founders _very _intimidating. Godric and Rowena seemed a formidable pair and there was no force on Earth that would make him take them on willingly. Helga stood quietly aside and though she said nothing, Draco knew that she would back up whatever it was the other two decided.

"It's true," said Draco, feeling that it was best if he stepped in before there was bloodshed – and the best way to prevent that was to simply agree. "It was the Dark Lord's thing. You had to be tested and trusted before you got the Mark. It was like a badge of honor."

Godric stood back and looked triumphant, his arms folded over his chest. Rowena's frown, if possible, seemed to deepen.

"Fantastic," he heard Ron grumble and he was half tempted to come up with a witty retort, but anything he might have thought of died in his throat at the look Harry was giving him. It was the same look he'd given Ginny when she'd come in with Godric. His stomach clenched and he quickly backpedaled.

"I mean that's what it was for _Voldemort_. I didn't sign up for Slytherin's Stygian Circle," he said, but then quickly realized he'd said something very wrong. Godric looked as though he was about to knock Harry aside and strangle Draco with his bare hands.

"How can you say you are not a defector when you bear the black mark and know the name of his guild?" Rowena spoke in such a low voice that it was hardly more than a hiss. "_We _did not even know it until the end. As such, it was blotted from history. You could not know it unless you were part of it."

Draco recoiled from her, but Harry still held his wrist and he couldn't get very far. "Look, I don't know, I just - I _do _know I didn't willingly sign up for _this_."

"He had a different mark," Harry interjected, stepping between Draco and blocking Rowena's advance. In the bell of her sleeve, he saw a sleek silver blade and swallowed thickly. "Before this one. I was there. One of Slytherin's followers changed it to this one. He didn't agree to anything. And he's not a traitor."

Ron snorted from beside Hermione, who promptly elbowed him in the ribs. Ginny's brown eyes kept darting from Harry to Draco and then back again.

"Even if that is true, you are just as suspect, Harry Potter," Rowena looked like a bird of prey about to make a kill. Draco suddenly had the compulsion to throw himself in front of Harry, to protect him from whatever it was Rowena was about to hurl at him, even if it might not be physical. The impulse was unsettling and worse yet, it didn't go away. "Yours is the blood that brought Salazar from beyond the veil."

Hermione let out a small gasp. "That's impossible."

"No, it's not. Only the blood of a descendant can breathe life into the dead," Rowena was shifting side to side now, and Draco was reminded of the raven she was named for.

"But Harry isn't the heir of Slytherin," Draco snapped irritably. "We covered this in second year."

He could understand their distrust in him, even their hate, but throwing suspicion onto Harry just seemed _wrong_. Harry was, essentially, all that was good and right in the world. He would never raise Slytherin from the dead or risk the lives of innocent people.

"Maybe not his _direct _descendant, but they share blood," said Godric, rolling his shoulders as though he were developing a headache. If anyone had the right to a headache, it was Draco. "Harry is _my_ descendant. And Salazar is my brother."


	13. Chapter 13: Depths of the Heart

Harry was shocked, his mind reeling. He'd dropped Draco's wrist and was simply blinking at Godric. This shouldn't have really been surprising news; there had been hints at it before. Things Dumbledore had told him. And there was a resemblance between the two that couldn't have been coincidence. But a thousand years was a long time. Some part of Harry had been sure that any direct links to the Founders were long gone.

Suddenly, the voices of those around him seemed to flood through the wall that had briefly separated them.

"But if he's a Gryffindor, how can you distrust him? He…"

"Obviously a Gryffindor would never do something like that…"

"Gryffindors are stupid, but not _that _stupid…"

"How is Slytherin your brother?" said Harry, breaking through the cacophony of his friends trying to come to his aid. "I mean you have different surnames."

Godric looked somber, as though this were particularly painful information that he didn't share lightly. And obviously he hadn't. There were no mentions of Gryffindor and Slytherin being related in the history books. They had been friends at best and bitter enemies in the end.

"We are half-brothers. We shared a mother," said Godric slowly and suddenly Helga reached out and touched his arm, the first move she'd made since entering the room. "She was wed to my father, Godfrey Gryffindor. He was killed when I was a boy and she was taken to be Lord Slytherin's wife. She bore Salazar after that.

"That is how you share Slytherin's blood and mine. As much as I wish to trust you as a Gryffindor, I find familial ties do not necessarily equate trust. Trust is earned and thus far, neither of you have been found deserving of it," Godric finished with a piercing look in Draco's direction. Harry shifted slightly, so that he was once again standing in front of Draco. "Worse still, he bears the mark. Even if it is as you say, that he had no choice, there will not be much time left before Salazar controls him. Any free will he had will be gone and any information that we share with him could land directly in Salazar's hands, whether any of us wish it or not."

Draco suddenly made a choking sound behind Harry. When he turned to look, Draco had turned sheet white, making the faint smudges of dust across his cheek bones look like faded war paint. His slender fingers were wrapped around his forearm; his palm covered the Dark Mark.

"He'll _control _me?" Draco said, sounding more terrified than outraged.

"A variation of the Imperius curse, but stronger. You will not be able to fight it. No one has," said Helga, though she was looking sympathetically in his direction. She seemed, at least, willing to believe that Draco wasn't evil.

There was a moment of charged silence. Every eye in the room was looking at Draco, who seemed like he was either going to bolt or faint. They were waiting on his reaction to this news like a morbid sideshow. None of them cared about what happened to Draco; Hermione and Ron were only tolerating him for Harry's sake and Ginny looked ready to tear a strip off both of them if given half a chance. Godric and Rowena had looked ready to do battle with Draco not a moment ago and Helga stood silently by, an impartial witness.

So Harry did the only thing he could think of. He grabbed Draco's hand and pulled him out of the room, letting the library door slam shut behind them. Draco's fingers were twitching against Harry's palm as he led him down the hall and out the back door into the garden. When the door clicked shut, Harry stopped and turned to face Draco, whose expression hadn't changed much.

"He's going to _control me_," Draco's voice was a whisper – a terrified, heartbreaking whisper that sunk deep beneath Harry's skin. Harry knew Draco; he wasn't brave or courageous or even very strong. He was sarcastic and sometimes mean and usually scared, though he hid it well. But he was smart and funny and there was part of him, Harry _knew _there was, that was good. It had been buried deep, maybe beaten out of him, Harry didn't know, but it was there. And Draco didn't deserve any of this.

"No, he's not," Harry gripped Draco's hands to keep them from shaking. "I'm not going to let him."

Draco suddenly gave a harsh laugh. He was becoming hysterical.

"Like _you _can stop it? This isn't one of those things you can fix, _Potter_," Draco's voice was shaking, his nails biting into the palms of his hands. "Slytherin's going to control me. I'll do horrible things. I could murder people. I could murder _you_."

Harry shoved Draco against the door. He was panicking and Harry had to do something quick to make him stop before this got out of hand. He pressed his body up against Draco's, pinning him against the door, but Harry could still feel the tremors racing through Draco's body. His eyes were wide with surprise at Harry's actions, which was, at least in part, better than the hyperventilating.

"You _won't_," Harry was scarcely two inches apart from Draco now. "I promise. You _won't_."

It seemed like the right thing to do. As soon as Harry put his hand against Draco's cheek, the tremors stopped. Though Harry was pressing him into the door, Draco's breath seemed to steady instead of being choked by fear. His fingers entwined themselves with Draco's, his thumb smoothing the raised skin on Draco's palms. The kiss, when it happened, wasn't intense or world shattering, but calm and steady and sure. Draco stilled beneath Harry's hands and lips, before all at once he was leaning into him, his free hand gripping Harry's t-shirt and pulling Harry closer still.

It was right. This was right and nothing could break Harry's assurance of that. Draco wasn't going to be controlled by some megalomaniac from the 10th century, he was going to stay right where he was. With Harry. The kiss was slowly becoming a frantic need. Where Harry needed Draco to be safe and placid, Draco needed Harry to be unwavering and determined. His hand slid into Draco's hair, and Draco moaned against Harry's mouth, his fingers pressing flat against Harry's chest.

When they finally separated, Draco collapsed forward, his forehead resting against Harry's shoulder. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were closed, and Harry briefly panicked, thinking he'd somehow knocked Draco unconscious. But Draco was standing on his own and his slow inhales were cooling the hot skin on Harry's neck. Harry's arm slipped around Draco's waist, the other still lingering in his hair.

"It'll be okay," Draco said quietly, and though his voice still shook slightly, he hardly seemed as though he were about to hyperventilate. Harry whispered that it was, over and over, somehow hoping that if he said it enough, it would be true.

When they returned to the library, the three Founders were standing to one side and Ginny, Ron and Hermione were on the other. Every one of them was yelling at the top of their lungs and they were standing so close together, Harry thought it was amazing a brawl hadn't broken out yet.

"This isn't _our _responsibility," Ginny was saying, fists clenched at her sides. "_We _agreed to help _you_."

"This mess wouldn't have come about if it hadn't been for that _stupid _boy," Rowena snarled back.

"_You _said he was the only one who could stop Slytherin, so I don't think you should be arguing with him," snapped Hermione. "_Or _us."

"And _you _would trust one with the Mark, who has sworn fealty to someone committed to the murder of innocent people?" Godric growled. "If he did it once, there's nothing to say he won't do it again!"

"If Harry trusts him, so do I," Ron said and at his full height, he was looking down at Godric. "If you're against Harry _or _Malfoy, you're against us."

Harry thought it was probably a good time to interject, before he was mopping blood up off the library floor. Draco was standing beside him looking vaguely amused. Of course he would find _this _funny. His sense of humor was dark and _deeply _twisted.

"We have a plan," Harry said, and when they didn't stop arguing, he said it again, this time raising his voice above theirs. Ron stopped mid curse, and they all turned to look at him. Draco folded his arms over his chest and looked pleased and Harry couldn't help but think maybe _kissing _Draco hadn't been such a good idea. He suddenly seemed very confident, and that wasn't necessarily a good thing when it came to Draco Malfoy.

"Whether we can trust each other or not, none of us has any clue where Slytherin even _is_," he strode fully into the room, feeling as though he were standing before the Order and his army again. It wasn't entirely a welcome feeling, but it emboldened him. "To stop him, we have to find him first. Draco is about the only one here that can do that. He has a connection to Slytherin that we can use to find him."

Several mouths opened to protest but Harry quickly held up his hand.

"I don't like it either," he said, glancing at Draco out of the corner of his eye. He probably liked it even less than the others. Draco was taking a big risk, letting Slytherin in. There was a chance this could backfire – and backfire _big time._ But none of them knew where Slytherin was hiding or where he would be working his dark magic and this was really the only means they had to find him before he did any real damage. Harry would have protested except that it had, surprisingly enough, been Draco's idea. "But we haven't got any other choice. Once we find out where he is, we'll attack. He hasn't had any resistance yet. He's barely just started. If we attack now, he won't be as strong as he _could _be."

"He's right," Godric said with a nod. Rowena was still scowling and Harry was surprised at how remarkably like Draco she looked when foul-tempered. Helga, at least, seemed to like the idea (or at least approved of it – it was impossible to tell when she said so little.) Hermione and Ron, who were faithfully by Harry's side no matter what he did, said nothing but they seemed to agree. "Salazar doesn't know that we have also risen. He will certainly not expect us."

"Then we're agreed," Harry said, breathing a small sigh of relief. It was always reassuring when his speech was over and the argument was finished.

"No," said Ginny suddenly, looking wild-eyed and angry. "No. I don't trust Malfoy and as long – as long he's a part of this, I won't have anything to do with it."

Harry watched in surprise as Ginny pushed past him and stalked from the room.

"One less is not going to be much of a difference," said Rowena, who appeared to have taken an intense disliking to Ginny and was glad that she was gone.

"No," Harry shook his head. "No, we need her. We definitely need her."

As Harry left the room to catch up with Ginny before she left Grimmauld Place altogether, he briefly caught sight of the twisted expression on Draco's face – an expression that almost made him stay. But he couldn't. No matter what had happened, no matter what Harry hoped for the future, Ginny was his girlfriend now. He had to deal with this now.


	14. Chapter 14: The Break

She couldn't believe this was happening. Even as she pushed herself out into the London heat, the shock made her skin feel like ice. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she wouldn't let them come. Part of her wanted to laugh. She had been so _dumb_.

Ginny had spent years loving Harry Potter, not saying anything because she thought he would come to love her on his own. And for two years, she'd been convinced that she'd done that. But the past year, things had spiraled out of her control. She'd lost touch with him and now she knew why. But she couldn't bring herself to feel any hurt for what he'd done, but rather that he let her _believe _that they were something when he obviously hadn't felt the same.

She was nearly halfway down the street when he caught up to her.

"Ginny, please," he breathed, panting. She took a deep breath, one that you might take before pulling off a bandage, and turned to face him. He was flushed from running and she realized she'd walked nearly the full length of the street before he'd caught up with her.

She couldn't help herself. She reached out and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his shoulder. He smelled the same as he always had, if not a little bit dusty from the library. He felt the same beneath her fingers as she clutched at his shirt. But there was something missing. She saw that now. He stood stiffly. She sighed and drew away.

"I should hate you," she whispered, drawing herself up. "But I can't."

"I'm sorry, I never meant –" he began, but she didn't want to hear his apologies. She shook her head and pressed a finger to his lips.

"I've loved you even before I knew you," she said, feeling as though for the first time she was awake to her own feelings. Her own misconceptions. She wasn't angry with Harry because if she were, she'd have to be just as angry with herself. She'd led herself on just as much as he had. She'd let herself believe in a fairytale, so desperately wanting it to be true that she'd lost sight of something important. "We used to hear stories as kids, you know. The Boy Who Lived, saving the wizarding world just by existing. I thought – when I met you – I thought you looked nothing like how I imagined. But I still loved you. I loved the idea of you. This boy who was so brave and so _good_. And then you defeated Voldemort again and again. You saved my life. You proved that you _were _everything I'd hoped you'd be. But I think – I think I was in love with fairytale you. I never let myself see that you weren't… that you were human."

"Ginny," Harry grabbed her hands, but she didn't pull them away. "I do love you. It's just that…"

"I know," Ginny smiled, because she did know. "But not that way. You love me like you love Hermione and Ron. I just never let you see that. But it still… I guess it still hurts to see you with… with _him_."

"Ginny, it's not like that," said Harry quickly, but even from his expression, she knew that it was. Maybe he wasn't sure of it, but she was. She could see it, even if he couldn't. Sometimes people were blind to what they were and what they really felt. She had been.

"Harry, it _is_ like that. You can lie to me all you like, but don't lie to yourself," she touched his face. Part of her still wanted him – still loved him so deeply that it hurt. The other part painfully knew that this was for the best. "I seen the way you looked at him. The way you protected him from Godric. Maybe the others didn't see it but _I did_, because for the longest time, that's the way I looked at you. And I –"

She faltered as her gaze caught the movement of something dark behind Harry. At first she thought it was nothing – a bird streaking past. But then a dark red spell shot by, so close it ruffled the hair off her neck. Harry spun around and moved so that she could see what was behind him. The Death Eaters moved like smoke, their black robes billowing in a breeze that she couldn't feel. There were five of them with their wands drawn and fear made her mouth go dry.

"Ginny, get back to the house!" When she didn't move, Harry glared at her. "_Now!_"

But she didn't. She reached down quickly and pulled her wand out of her boot, her mind racing with spells. The Death Eaters were closer now and she could make out their faces. The one that lead them made rage boil up in her like a kettle, and she nearly screamed. Her fingers were wrapped so tightly around her wand that her knuckles were white and aching.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

"_Expelliarmus!" _Harry shouted and the spell flew from his wand before Ginny had time to react. Bellatrix moved so quickly that Ginny wasn't even sure she'd seen it. It wasn't possible, that sort of swiftness. Harry turned pale when he realized she'd outmaneuvered him, simply by stepping out of the way.

"Oh, Potter," Bellatrix clicked her tongue, as though she were scolding a small boy. Ginny could see little else beyond her white-hot rage. She couldn't think straight – her mind kept going back to one thought: _You killed my brother._

It wasn't until she was running forward that Ginny realized she'd shrieked the words that were at the forefront of her mind. She was partially aware of Harry yelling at her to stop, but she couldn't. She _wouldn't_. She raised her wand, her hand steady.

"_Avada Kedavra!" _she snarled, and she meant it so fiercely, more than she ever had. Green light exploded from the end of her wand and flew so quickly towards Bellatrix that even she couldn't avoid it. The light hit Bellatrix in the chest with such an impact that she stumbled backwards. Ginny knew she should have been horrified that she could do such a thing, but she could only feel black triumph.

It vanished the instant Bellatrix began to laugh.

"Oh dear," she said, her voice raised with pitched laughter. "It seems you can't kill someone who's already dead."

Horror washed through Ginny and she stumbled back, her heart feeling like a dead weight in her chest. Harry grabbed her arm and pulled her back so that she stood next to him. She could hear herself murmuring as though through a fog, "It's not possible. It's just not possible."

Ginny's gaze darted from Bellatrix to the other Death Eaters and her horror turned to cold shock. Aside from one Death Eater she didn't recognize, there were three that she did. Severus Snape. Sirius Black. And –

"Fred?" she whimpered, her cheeks damp with hot tears. "H-How…"

She glanced over at Harry, who seemed to be in as much shock as she was. He was chalky white and his eyes were filled with unshed tears. But then he turned to her, slowly as though he wasn't quite all there. When his gaze landed on her, he seemed to focus. She looked back at the advancing Death Eaters, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from Fred. He looked as he always had, but there was something off. His eyes were blank. He didn't even seem to recognize her.

Harry suddenly grabbed her arm and was dragging her away toward number 12. She stumbled, constantly looking over her shoulder.

"It's Slytherin," Harry was saying, but she felt disconnected from her body. "He's controlling them."

They'd reached the door and were nearly inside when a cold hand grasped her arm and yanked her from her feet, her hand slipping out of Harry's. She fell and twisted, wrenching her arm as she struggled to pull away. She shrieked when she found herself face to face with Bellatrix, who was smiling coldly at her. She could hear Harry curse behind her, and lights were flying past her as he flung spells. But none seemed to connect, as though he were fighting ghosts.

"Go," Bellatrix turned to the other four. "Don't bother. He'll come to us."

A scream tore from Ginny's throat as they spun into blackness, Bellatrix apparating with her in tow.


End file.
